URSULA 
TRENT 


W.LGEORGE 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 
EDWIN  CORLE 

PRESENTED  BY 
JEAN  CORLE 


Ursula   Trent 


BY 

W.  L.  GEORGE 

Author  of  "Caliban"  "Hail  Columbia"  Etc. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 


Books  by  W.  L.  GEORGE 

Ursula  Trent 

Hail,  Columbia! 

Caliban 

Woman  and  Tomorrow 

Until  the  Day  Break 

The  Strangers'  Wedding 

The  Second  Blooming 

Little  Beloved 

The  Intelligence  of  Woman 

The  Individualist 

The  City  of  Light 

A  Bed  of  Roses 

Blind  Alley 


URSULA  TRBKT 


Copyright,  1921,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Dedicated  in  Friendship 

To 
H.   L.    MENCKEN 


2037951 


CONTENTS 


Part  I 
THE  GREAT  HOUSE 

CHAP.  PAQB 

I.  THROUGH  A  GLASS  DARKLY 3 

II.  SEA  ANEMONES 10 

HI.     OSWALD  PASSES 21 

IV.  HERITORS 31 

V.  THE  OBELISK 52 

Part  II 
THE  BED  SITTING  ROOM 

I.  THE  NARROW,  NARROW  WORLD 67 

II.  FAREWELL  TO  PLUTUS <     .    .  75 

HI.     EXPERIENCE 82 

IV.  MRS.  VERNHAM 94 

V.  BETWEEN  Two  SHOWERS 110 

VI.  AFTER  THE  INQUEST 125 

V1T.    ORANGE  STICKS 144 

VHL  DING-DONG 158 

IX.     JULIAN 169 

Part   III 
THE  FLAT  IN  DOVER  STREET 

I.  EMOTIONS 185 

II.  A  PARTY 194 

HI.     DEVELOPING           209 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

IV.  SUSPICION 219 

V.  CONTRADICTIONS 232 

VI.  AWAKENING 243 

VII.  NEVER  AGAIN 256 

Vm.  "Bur  STILL!" 268 

Part  IV 
THE  HOUSE  OF  CLOUD 

I.        RIPPLES 285 

n.      FACING  IT  Our 294 

HI.     ALEC 303 

IV.  WAYS  TO  FREEDOM 320 

V.  GRAND  PARADE .341 

VI.  Now  DISMISS .356 


PART  I.    THE  GREAT  HOUSE 


URSULA   TRENT 

Chapter  I 
Through  a  Glass  Darkly 


A  MAN  said  to  me  once  (I  was  manicuring  him  then), 
"  To  be  a  husband  is  a  whole-time  job."  And  I  thought, 
"To  be  a  woman  is  a  whole-time  job."  Yet  I  am  not  sorry 
that  I  was  born  a  woman.  When  I  think  how  often  some  girl 
has  said  to  me,  "Oh,  I  wish  I  were  a  man,"  and  how  it  has 
never  happened  to  a  man  to  say  to  me  that  he  wished  he 
were  a  woman,  I  cannot  help  feeling  that  women  don't 
understand  what  they  can  get  out  of  themselves.  They  don't 
dare,  I  suppose.  To  an  intelligent  woman  who's  not  too  ugly 
men  are  the  white  sheet  of  paper  on  which  we  write  our  lives. 

These  have  been  good  years  for  women,  the  years  I  re- 
member. I  am  lucky  to  have  been  born  in  time  to  see  a 
great  war,  to  see  history  made  obvious.  I  am  glad  to  have 
lived  and  to  be  living  in  days  of  speed  and  force  when,  as 
one  looks  for  a  metaphor,  one  doesn't  see  life  as  a  heron 
rising  from  the  marsh  and  drawing  across  a  pallid  sky  the 
elliptical  curve  of  his  flight;  my  period  is  like  a  cinema; 
things  rush  to  blot  one  another  out.  And  life  is  like  a  ground 
mist  that  an  ever-changing  wind  molds  and  dispels. 

I  look  through  my  latticed  window  at  the  hollyhocks  that 
stoop  like  very  young  girls  that  have  grown  too  fast,  and 
tell  myself  that  these  nine  years  were  worth  it,  all  the  pain 
and  the  uncertainty,  for  I  was  in  tune  with  my  time.  I  had 
no  sense  of  being  a  foreigner.  So  many  of  us  are  foreigners 
among  mankind  and  hold  on  with  weak  hands  to  the  habits 
of  a  people,  we  never  knew,  to  traditions  long  dead.  I 


4  URSULA   TRENT 

escaped  that,  and  so,  for  a  moment  (the  wind  is  springing  up 
and  one  of  the  hollyhocks  sheds  a  few  of  its  pink  cockades), 
I  turn  backward  the  handle  of  the  camera,  to  see  the  film 
reverse  itself.  What  crowds  of  faces!  Faces  that  I  would 
touch  again,  and  faces  that  to  see  is  nightmare;  men's  faces, 
some  eager  and  young,  or  painted  with  hideous  greed,  with 
covetousness  of  me,  and  faces  that  feel  not,  neither  do 
express.  Girls'  faces,  too — fine  healthy  faces  where  the  sun- 
burn masks  blushes,  who  never  knew  pain  and  so  never 
grew  into  women;  others  so  pitiful  because  they  were  soft, 
and  others  more  pitiful  because  they  were  hard. 

What  a  jumble  life  is !  It  all  clots  up :  the  manicure  parlor, 
my  nursery  at  Giber  Court,  London  Bridge  and  A  B  C's, 
underground  dancing  rooms  with  purple  ceilings  spangled 
with  stars,  where  rough  music  lets  flat  despair  emerge  from 
its  jazzian  jollity,  bits  of  blue  sky  spattered  with  white 
rags  of  cloud  above  green  hedges,  and  in  the  middle,  as  the 
master  of  Juggernaut,  Piccadilly  Circus,  the  vortex  of 
London.  I  got  out.  Am  I  sorry  that  I  got  out  into  Peace 
Harbor?  I've  settled  down.  But  can  one  settle  down? 


How  badly  I've  put  all  this!  But  who  can  describe  the 
picture  that  is  made  of  colored  glass  in  a  kaleidoscope? 
Yet  I'm  intelligent.  Often  I  wish  I'd  been  educated.  It 
isn't  enough  to  be  intelligent,  and  Fraulein  used  to  say 
that  though  I  learned  easily  there  was  no  knowing  what  I 
wouldn't  forget.  She  thought  me  a  queer  child.  Lots  of 
people  have  said  that;  they've  called  me  a  cure,  a  caution, 
deep  one.  A  young  man  whose  name  I  have  forgotten,  with 
a  pretty  face  like  a  soap  advertisement,  and  a  golden  mus- 
tache like  a  fixatif  advertisement,  and  neat  little  clothes  .  .  . 
well,  never  mind  the  other  advertisements  .  .  .  called  me  a 
singular  young  person.  I  suppose  he  meant  I  was  feminine. 
We  puzzle  them.  No  wonder,  when  I  reflect  how  they 
puzzle  us.  But  they  confess  their  perplexity  and  we  don't; 
that's  our  strength,  I  suppose. 


THROUGH  A  GLASS  DARKLY  5 

Yes,  I'm  intelligent.  I'm  also  pretty.  I'm  neither  very 
vain  nor  very  scheming  nor  untruthful  if  I  can  help  it.  And, 
like  ordinary  people,  I  can  play  with  big  emotions  in  a  small 
way.  I've  got  small  failings;  I  can  be  petty,  bad  tempered, 
slack,  unreasonable,  and  know  it,  and  go  on  all  the  same. 
That's  because  I'm  intelligent;  but  sometimes  I  wish  I  were 
educated.  Life  seems  so  much  easier  for  the  educated;  they 
trot  along  their  educated  lines  and  in  the  end  are  cremated 
in  the  most  modern  conditions.  To-day,  notably,  I  wish  I 
were  educated,  because  I  want  to  tell  the  history  of  my  life. 
The  life  of  an  individual  is  so  hard  to  understand  unless  one 
also  knows  something  about  the  life  of  mankind.  That  pre- 
vents one  from  thinking  oneself  exceptional.  All  the  facts  I 
know  in  English  history  are  that  the  Conqueror  came  over  in 
1066,  and  that  Charles  I  had  his  head  cut  off  in  1649.  In 
foreign  history,  I  know  that  Charles  XII  fought  Peter  the 
Great  at  Poltava  in  1709.  That's  because  I  used  to  play  a 
piece  of  music  called  "The  Battle  of  Poltava";  also,  when 
I  was  fifteen,  I  was  taken  to  a  matinee  at  a  music  hall,  got 
up,  feeling  very  hot,  and  asked  Datas  the  year  of  that 
battle.  I  shall  never  forget  it,  for  fifteen  hundred  people 
were  staring  at  me  while  I  did  it.  I'm  afraid  that's  all. 
But  I  feel  history;  I  know  that  our  everyday  life  is  just 
history  adjourned,  and  so  all  the  past  I  know  nothing  of  is 
alive  with  merchants  like  our  profiteers,  priests  like  our 
politicians.  But  I  can't  criticize  my  own  times  except 
through  my  emotions.  How  can  I  discuss  the  function  of 
wealth,  knowing  no  economics?  I  want  to  talk  of  love,  and 
know  no  biology.  What  do  I  know  of  class  wars?  of  meta- 
physics? of  psychology?  of  the  real  stuff  of  life?  I  don't 
know  anything  except  what  I've  seen.  But  I  met  a  B.Sc. 
the  other  day,  and  she  didn't  know,  either.  Perhaps  one 
can't  know. 

ra 

I  tried.  I  really  did  want  to  know  when  I  was  small, 
especially  the  things  they  told  me  I'd  understand  when  I 
was  grown  up.  The  trouble  is  people  don't  know  things 


6  URSULA   TRENT 

when  they're  grown  up.  If  one  had  to  pass  exams,  every  five 
years  one  might.  I  remember  Fraulein  trying  to  explain  to 
me  why  the  Australians  don't  fall  off.  She  did  it  with  an 
orange  and  two  matches.  Then  she  moved;  the  lower 
match  did  fall  off,  and  she  lost  her  temper.  I  don't  yet 
understand  why  the  Australians  don't  fall  off.  They  made 
it  worse  at  Eastbourne  when  the  science  master  explained 
what  was  centrifugal  force.  It  seems  to  me  that  if  the 
earth  does  whirl  round  at  I  don't  know  how  many  miles  an 
hour  the  Australians  would  not  only  fall  off,  but  fly  off. 
Facts  can  be  very  difficult  to  understand;  perhaps  that's  why 
people  are  content  with  the  temporary  shadow  made  by  the 
fleeting  mist  that  we  call  life.  They  can  see  that  in  a  way. 

I  am  sitting  down  to  write  the  history  of  my  life.  I'd  like 
to  begin:  My  name  is  Ursula  Trent;  I  shall  be  thirty  this 
year.  I  was  born  .  .  .  But  how  dull  it  sounds!  Besides, 
there  are  such  frightful  gaps.  One  doesn't  remember. 
Sometimes  I  try  to  bring  up  the  dissolving  view  that  first 
met  my  conscious  eyes.  It  is  a  very  large  room  on  the  second 
floor  of  Giber  Court.  I  think  it  faces  southwest,  for  it  is  the 
late  afternoon  and  the  sun  shines.  Something  large  and 
movable  is  by  the  window.  It  may  be  a  rocking-horse.  I 
have  a  sense  of  effort,  of  holding  on.  The  window  sill? 
Then  I  must  be  looking,  perhaps  for  the  first  time  on  my 
feet,  at  the  great  and  mysterious  city  in  the  valley  that  in  a 
year  or  two  I  shall  learn  to  call  Burleigh  Abbas.  A  few 
years  later  I  shall  discover  it  as  a  village  of  eighty  houses, 
collected  round  the  post  office,  that  is  also  the  general  shop. 

I  turn  the  handle,  turn  it,  turn  it,  and  the  film  is  blank, 
until  I  eat  cream  cakes  at  Mrs.  Robertson's  in  Grafton 
Street,  and  a  cross  old  lady,  wearing  a  transformation,  turns 
round  from  the  next  table  and  requests  the  child  not  to 
fidget.  Then  I  am  a  woman  of  fourteen;  I  fall  in  love,  am 
stirred  to  mysterious  sensualities  by  harsh,  boyish  kisses; 
then  almost  at  once  I  am  faithless.  An  examiner  asks  me 
how  the  Crusades  came  about.  I  don't  know  the  answer 
then.  To-day  I  can't  credit  it. 

I  suppose  it  was  a  good  life,  for  one  didn't  feel  it  go  by  so 


THROUGH  A  GLASS  DARKLY  7 

fast;  time  is  long  when  one  is  young  because  one  desires 
what  one  can't  get;  later  one  only  gets  what  one  can't  desire. 
One  couldn't  help  being  happy  as  a  child  at  Giber  Court. 
I  went  down  the  other  day;  it  hasn't  changed  since  I  held 
on  to  the  window  sill  any  more,  I  suppose,  than  it  changed 
between  my  childhood  and  the  day  when  the  first  Trent 
knifed  in  the  back  somebody  that  Henry  VIII  didn't  like, 
was  made  a  baronet,  learned  to  sign  his  name,  and  grew  re- 
spectable. Giber  Court  doesn't  get  old.  It  has  got  stuck  in 
the  corridors  of  Time,  and  that  half  makes  me  understand 
why  the  Socialists  want  to  clear  it  away.  What  a  pity  it 
would  be  to  clear  away  Giber  Court!  The  low  house  of  gray 
stone  between  the  two  cobby  towers;  the  Queen  Anne 
chimney  stacks,  whose  brick  clashes  horribly;  even  the  new 
wing  that  my  great-grandfather  built  to  house  his  twelve 
children.  Why  a  pity,  I  don't  know,  but  when  I  stand  in 
the  drive,  looking  at  the  lawn,  close-cropped  in  herringbone 
pattern,  at  the  two  ducks  cut  out  of  box  bushes  by  the 
porch,  I  feel  once  more  that  I  am  holding  on  to  the  window 
sill,  the  only  thing  that  doesn't  move  while  the  film  streams 
on,  quivering  and  blotched. 

I  suppose  I  had  to  leave  all  that.  I  had  to  live.  I'm  not 
a  Jane  Austen  girl,  sneaking  the  jam  from  the  emotional 
pantry.  I'm  greedy  and  bad  mannered.  I  want  my  jam  in 
public.  Pots  of  it.  I'd  have  gone  crazy  if  I'd  had  to  pretend 
to  be  an  Elizabeth  Bennett,  though  there's  some  secretive 
Elizabeth  in  all  of  us.  So  many  things  we  must  hide  from 
men:  our  physical  preoccupations,  because  every  man  likes 
to  think  that  we  haven't  got  any  until  we  meet  him;  our 
maneuvers  to  attract  and  secure  those  creatures  that  are  so 
fanciful,  so  much  more  nervous  and  irresponsible  than  we; 
our  exploitations  of  men,  this  rare  revenge  of  ours;  our 
contempt  for  man's  apparent  lack  of  sensitiveness,  the 
insensitiveness  which  makes  man  so  incredibly  attractive; 
we  have  to  hide  that,  and  our  respect  for  his  obstinacy,  the 
sturdy  density  of  the  creature.  Also  we  must  encourage  the 
perpetual  appeal  of  a  weakness  which  we  half  affect,  which 
increases  his  sense  of  strength  and  self-reliance;  we  have  to 


8  URSULA   TRENT 

flatter  his  masculinity  and  yet  at  the  same  time  always 
make  him  feel  how  weak  he  is  when  confronted  with  the 
physical  impulses  that  we  can  arouse  in  him. 

I  hate  men;  I  love  them.  I  hate  the  things  they  hide  from 
us — their  successive  coarse  love  affairs;  their  private  con- 
versation, made  up  of  unpleasant  stories  or  of  foolish  ideas 
about  golf,  etchings,  tobacco.  Yet  I  delight  in  their  crudity; 
it  makes  them  massive.  I  hate  their  consciousness  of  con- 
quest, their  secret  contempt  for  women,  and  yet  that  con- 
tempt deliciously  subordinates  me.  I  hate  the  strength  that 
makes  them  conquer  us,  yet  I  call  to  it,  and  I  hate  the  hatred 
they  feel  for  us  sometimes,  when  they  are  ashamed  of  being 
conquered.  Their  selfishness  annoys  me,  because  they  want 
things  for  themselves,  while  I  want  things  for  my  man.  I 
realize  that  is  selfishness  in  another  form,  because  it  hurts 
me  when  my  man  has  not  all  he  wants.  Only  man's  selfish- 
ness differs  from  mine,  and  I  don't  like  that.  And  what  I 
hate  most  is  that  the  man  should  preserve  things  which  are 
not  mine — his  work,  a  club,  a  friend  or  two  whom  I  do  not 
favor.  My  man  is  mine;  perhaps  that  is  why  I  say  that  I 
am  his.  Men  are  not  greedy  enough  of  us.  Some  of  them 
treat  us  like  their  equals.  Equality!  What  a  disgusting 
relationship!  I  prefer  the  idealists  who  grant  us  our  own 
way,  as  they  put  it,  and  call  it  tolerance,  while  it's  only 
indifference.  Or  even  the  dense  brutes.  At  bottom  I  am 
too  proud  to  be  merely  a  man's  equal. 

I've  tried  to  tell  these  things  to  men.  They've  thought 
them  amusing.  I  talk  too  much;  I  don't  conceal  enough  of 
my  past  and  of  my  present  moods.  I  kill  the  mystery  which 
produces  irritation  and  interest.  Of  course,  when  a  man 
comes  to  know  us  it  increases  his  sense  of  mastery,  and  he 
may  despise  us  for  that,  or  rejoice  in  us  for  that.  One  just 
doesn't  know.  Every  man  is  very  mysterious,  and  the  life 
of  a  woman  with  a  man  is  a  series  of  experiments. 

IV 

A  hand  is  laid  upon  my  neck,  caresses  it.  I  do  not  move. 
I  know  that  in  a  moment  he  will  draw  away  my  hair  a  little 


THROUGH  A  GLASS  DARKLY  9 

more  from  the  temples.  He  likes  me  scragged,  and  I  hate  it. 
But  what  is  one  to  do  when  one  loves?  One  can  become 
ugly  in  one's  own  eyes,  so  that  the  beloved  may  think  one 
beautiful.  I  let  the  hard,  pleasant  fingers  draw  back  my 
hair,  now  and  then  pretending  to  growl  with  anger.  This 
pleases  him;  it  enhances  his  pleasure  in  dominating  me. 

"What  are  you  doing?"  he  asks,  at  length. 

"I  am  writing  the  story  of  my  life." 

He  laughs.  "That's  a  big  job.  I'm  afraid  you'll  never 
finish  it.  Besides  ...  the  best  chapters  are  still  unwritten." 

I'm  thirty,  nearly.    I  wonder. 


Chapter  II 
Sea  Anemones 


IT  is  a  good  thing  to  be  pretty.  At  least,  I  suppose  I'm 
pretty,  unless  I'm  rather  more.  It  is  so  difficult  to  know 
just  what  one  looks  like  when  one  sees  oneself  only  in  the 
silvery  falsehood  of  a  mirror,  and  occasionally  in  the  golden 
falsehood  of  a  man's  eyes  that  glimpse  one  through  a  curtain 
of  illusion.  Still,  I  do  believe  it  when  I  look  at  an  old  photo- 
graph of  myself,  taken  before  the  war,  when  I  was  twenty- 
two.  It  is  a  good  photograph  by  Norman  Bark,  with  one 
of  those  semi-Oriental,  semimisty  backgrounds  which  he 
likes.  He  has  placed  me  on  an  oak  chest,  my  knees  crossed, 
my  arms  outstretched  over  an  open  copy  of  Country  Life. 
How  long  my  arms  look!  They  were  rather  thin  then.  Though 
I  suspect  that  Bark  touched  them  up  a  little,  I  have  thick, 
slightly  raw  hands,  the  hands  of  a  country  girl.  I'm  very 
dark  skinned;  under  the  ninon  blouse  I  can  see  the  shadowy 
outline  of  the  shoulder  that  was  a  little  thin,  flowing  to  a 
rather  long  but  thick  neck  shadowed  with  down.  At  that 
time  I  am  powerfully  made,  but  undeveloped.  My  figure  is 
slight;  I  remember  the  bony,  sinew-bound  knees  which  I 
showed  when  bathing,  and  which  shamed  me  because  they 
lacked  feminine  roundness  and  delicacy.  All  that  has 
changed,  for  I  have  filled  out.  Now  I  have  a  dimple  at  my 
elbow,  and  thinner  hands.  But  my  face  has  not  changed 
much.  Still  I  wear  my  rather  coarse,  almost  black  hair 
close  about  the  crown  and  thickly  coiled  over  the  back  of 
my  head.  There  was  a  wreath  of  ivy  leaves  round  my  head, 
and  I  wore  a  necklace  of  seed  pearls.  My  forehead  is  low, 
but  looks  high  because  my  head  is  narrow  and  long.  Set 


SEA  ANEMONES  It 

wide  apart  about  a  faintly  tip-tilted  nose  lie  my  eyes  that 
are  large,  deep  brown,  very  thickly  lashed,  and  always  out- 
lined by  an  aura  whose  purple  melts  into  sepia  and  at  the 
edge  disappears  into  the  darker  flush  of  my  dark  cheeks. 
Dead-black,  fairly  level  brows  overhang  my  eyes.  This 
gives  an  effect  of  brooding  and  melancholy.  When  I  am 
thinking  of  nothing  men  always  believe  that  I  am  being 
soulful.  I  suppose  it  is  my  mouth  misleads  them,  for  it  is 
rather  thick,  especially  the  upper  lip;  the  under  lip  falls 
away  a  little,  showing  a  gleam  of  teeth;  it  makes  me  look 
forlorn,  and  I  might  be  thought  weak  if  there  were  not  big 
bones  in  my  jaw.  I'm  deceptive;  men  cannot  guess  whether 
my  somber  feebleness  may  easily  be  abused,  or  whether  I 
shall  suddenly  turn  hard,  or  even  furious.  I  am  not  very 
tall,  but  though  I  talk  a  lot,  my  voice  is  quiet.  My  husband 
is  right;  he  knows  the  hardness  in  me  that  mixes  with  my 
dependence;  and  how  suddenly  dependence  can  turn  into 
the  rage  he  likes  to  dispel. 

I  remember.  I  wore  that  frock  in  May,  at  the  garden 
party  which  we  gave  the  tenants.  It  was  so  funny.  The 
farmers  in  hard  hats  that  weren't  exactly  bowlers,  and  the 
new  agent,  a  young  man,  a  terrific  dandy  with  a  blue-spotted 
tie  the  spots  of  which  were  rather  too  large.  The  local 
notables,  the  two  doctors,  very  jealous  of  each  other,  and 
therefore  going  about  like  intimate  friends;  Mr.  Bowden, 
who,  I  believe,  asked  every  girl  he  met  when  he  would  have 
the  pleasure  of  officiating  at  her  wedding.  Dear  Mr.  Bowden ! 
How  he  perspired  in  his  hot,  clerical  clothes.  Rather  an 
unpopular  clergyman,  for  he  hated  censuring  anybody,  and 
was  then  in  trouble  with  the  churchwardens  because  he  re- 
fused to  turn  out  couples  from  church  on  a  rainy  Sunday. 
He  was  very  sore  about  it,  and  put  it  to  me  with  an  air  of 
rosy  protest  while  eating  a  strawberry  ice: 

"They  say  that  these  young  people  behave  in  an  unseemly 
way.  Well,  well,  youth  is  the  time  for  unseemly  behavior, 
within  reasonable  bounds.  They  actually  wanted  me  to 
tell  these  young  people  to  go  and  hold  hands  against  a  wet 
stile  or  in  a  bar  parlor.  My  dear  young  lady,  I  feel  that 


12  URSULA   TRENT 

much  good  and  no  evil  can  come  from  holding  hands  in  the 
House  of  Him  who  loved  little  children." 

I  laughed.  "But,  Mr.  Bowden,"  I  said,  in  a  shocked  tone, 
"surely  you  would  object  if  ...  betrothals  took  place  in 
your  church." 

"No,"  said  the  old  man,  so  thoughtful  that  he  did  not 
notice  the  steady  trickle  of  the  melting  ice  on  to  his  black 
trousers.  "No.  I  wouldn't  object.  How  will  people  believe 
that  He  is  a  God  of  love  if  He  persecutes  lovers?" 

I  wonder  what  they  made  of  him,  the  churchwardens, 
especially  Mr.  Felstead,  our  local  solicitor,  who  in  his  life 
had  committed  only  one  aphorism — "Love  brings  lots  of 
business  to  lawyers,  but  apart  from  that  it's  a  damned  nui- 
sance." I  remember  so  many  of  these  parties,  where  the 
notables  were  scattered.  At  the  last  moment  one  used  to 
send  frantic  notes  to  the  daughters  of  a  neighboring  house. 
One  asked  Lady  Edderton  to  let  Verena  and  Claribel  come. 
One  was  at  one's  wits'  end.  The  second  housemaid  was  ill; 
also  one  had  just  heard  that  Mrs.  Balcombe  was  refusing 
to  stand  at  the  same  buffet  as  Lady  Moffat,  because  Lady 
Moffat  had  not  returned  her  call.  One  didn't  press  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Wardle,  who  possessed  much  money,  but  no  attractions, 
had  many  children,  and  brought  them  all.  Sometimes  Sir 
Fitzwater  Ingham  would  appear,  sit  down  in  a  deck  chair 
in  the  middle  of  the  garden,  and  expect  to  have  every  pretty 
girl  brought  up  hi  turn,  looking,  with  his  immense,  bead- 
like  nose  and  heavy  yellow  mustache,  like  a  Crusader  who'd 
lost  his  map  of  the  Holy  Land. 

One  has  to  do  these  things.  One  gives  garden  parties. 
When  they're  over  one  says,  "We  sha'n't  have  to  have 
another  until  next  June."  One  goes  to  garden  parties,  and 
when  one  gets  away  one  says,  **  That's  that."  One  goes  on 
doing  it  all  the  same,  because  in  a  funny,  excited  way  one 
likes  the  movement,  the  various  faces,  the  lady  with  the 
rune  pink  bows  on  her  blouse,  and  because  Claribel  will  tell 
one  a  secret  about  Lewis,  nearly  as  thrilling  as  the  one  she 
told  a  month  ago  about  Cyril.  One  wears  a  pretty  frock  for 
the  first  tune,  and  some  man  may  say  so  without  knowing 


SEA  ANEMONES  13 

what  he  means,  or  a  woman  may  say  so,  knowing  what  she 
means  and  in  a  spirit  of  desperate  hate.  It's  nice.  Like 
Irish  stew.  One  may  find  anything  in  it. 

I  was  very  happy  before  the  war,  for  I  liked  everything. 
I  loved  dances,  and  was  one  of  the  first  to  exhibit  the  im- 
proper tango  at  the  county  ball  at  Basingalton.  Also,  I 
loved  hunting,  the  aviator  feeling  when  the  horse  rises  to  a 
fence,  and  the  queer,  swoony  sensation  of  forty  minutes 
without  a  check.  When  I  close  my  eyes  I  can  feel  the 
heavy  going.  Rhythmically  I  rise  and  sink.  ...  I  half 
close  my  eyes.  ...  I  glimpse  the  huntsman's  coat,  to 
lose  it  again.  Sometimes  I  am  in  at  the  death,  very 
hot,  dirty,  half  frightened,  half  excited,  a  pulse  beating 
in  my  side,  as  the  yapping  chorus  of  the  hounds  concen- 
trates round  the  invisible  fox,  and  suddenly  turns  into  a 
lower  chorus  of  growls.  I  am  horrified,  yet  my  eyes  feel 
wet  and  soft.  I  want  to  look  at  people  and  to  smile  stupidly, 
as  if  I  were  drugged.  For  in  the  bracken,  hidden  by  those 
shaking,  spotted  white  flanks,  those  quivering  sterns,  tragedy 
is  happening.  I  surprise  an  incredible  instinct.  I  want  that 
fox  broken  up.  I  got  the  brush  for  the  first  time  when  I 
was  seventeen.  They  blooded  me,  and  I  came  down  to 
dinner  with  a  dirty  face  because  I  wouldn't  wash  off  the 
glorious  sign. 

Men  were  nice  to  me.  I  refused  two  men  before  I  was 
twenty.  Then  came  Lord  Oswald.  Sometimes  I  wish  I  had 
married  him,  if  only  to  know  what  he  was  really  like.  Oswald 
embarrassed  one,  because  he  was  so  aloof,  so  self-contained. 
Just  then  he  was  about  thirty,  extraordinarily  good-looking 
in  a  faintly  monastic  way.  Every  feature  was  fine,  burnt 
goldy-brown  by  open  air  and  exercise.  One  couldn't  just 
call  him  an  outdoor  man,  and  though  he  was  a  politician 
with  the  orthodox  Tory  views  of  his  class,  one  could  not 
just  call  him  a  politician.  He  was  such  a  radical  Tory.  I 
think  I  would  have  wholly  loved  Oswald  if  I  could  have 
understood  what  was  expressed  in  his  rather  slaty  gray 
eyes,  whether  it  was  coldness  or  fanaticism,  disdain  or 
despair.  Once,  as  we  stood  in  the  embrasure  of  a  win- 


14  URSULA   TRENT 

dow  in  the  ballroom  at  Edderton  Hall,  he  said  to  me 
suddenly: 

"Nothing  changes.  Yet  is  it  our  business,  we  politicians, 
to  alter  appearances.  Men  don't  change;  we  merely  make 
them  new  clothes."  Then  he  stared  at  me  with  those  soft 
and  desperate  eyes  of  his,  and  said:  "One  doesn't  know 
where  one  is,  does  one,  with  old  customs  trampled  down, 
and  we  replacing  them  by  new  laws,  new  laws  for  the  old 
sort  of  men?  It's  like  men  and  women.  There  you  stand 
before  me  ...  so  lovely.  If  we  grew  to  love  each  other, 
would  we  change?  We'd  be  married,  well,  yes,  new  clothes 
for  two  people.  You  can't  make  men  Siamese  Twins  by 
special  license." 

I  didn't  say  anything.  What  could  J  say?  Was  he  pro- 
posing to  me?  So  I  laughed  and  said  something  idiotic, 
like,  "Oh,  it  doesn't  do  to  think  of  those  things."  He  flung 
me  a  look  of  pain,  took  my  hand,  hesitated,  as  if  about  to 
kiss  it,  and,  sighing,  let  it  go  again. 

It  was  horrible;  it  was  as  if  I  had  failed  him  in  something. 
I  understand  him  better  now,  for  Oswald  was  in  the  horrible 
state  of  being  tempted  to  democracy,  though  the  son  of  an 
earl.  Yet,  being  intellectual,  he  did  not  trust  the  democracy 
that  called  to  him.  He  ached  for  change,  and  did  not  believe 
change  possible.  So  he  felt  incredible  revolt  against  his  own 
order,  yet  could  not  ally  to  the  new  order.  He  was  another 
of  those  foreigners  in  life,  like  the  phantom  ship  beating 
through  Eternity  round  the  Cape  of  Little  Hope. 


n 

A  very  different  man  from  the  members  of  his  order  in 
the  county.  It  seems  that  the  aristocracy  now  and  then 
throws  up  something  like  Oswald,  somebody  like  Lord  Hugh 
Cecil  or  Lord  Henry  Cavendish  Bentinck,  unless  it  take 
the  disabused  form  of  Mr.  Balfour.  The  old  vigor  of  the 
aristocrat,  that  translated  itself  once  into  perilous  loyalty  to 
some  blackguard  king,  or  into  treachery  to  a  good  friend, 
that  made  murderous  barons,  incestuous  cardinals,  and  dukes 


SEA  ANEMONES  15 

who  cheated  at  cards,  failed,  I  think,  to  emerge  from  men 
like  Oswald,  infirm  of  will  because  doubtful  of  any  goal. 
If  I  knew  more  history,  if  I  did  more  than  understand  emo- 
tionally what  the  great  dead  were,  I  might  have  understood 
Oswald.  But  I  could  only  half  love  him,  half  love  him  in  a 
terrified,  irritated  way.  I  was  viewing  him  as  he  viewed  the 
world,  with  desire  and  doubt. 

It  was  that,  I  suppose,  made  me  think  one  day:  "What  a 
fool  I  am  to  worry  about  Oswald!  He  hasn't  asked  me  to 
marry  him.  And  if  he  did,  would  I  be  much  better  off  with 
Frank  Coriesmore,  who's  going  to  propose  to  me  soon,  and 
who's  fat,  and  round,  and  rosy,  and  jolly,  and  a  sailor,  and 
the  youngest  commander  in  the  navy  but  two?  A  nice  house 

in  Southsea!    Our  children,  round  and  rosy  and  etc and 

in  blue.  Frank  would  land,  having  been  a  fortnight  at  sea, 
and  shout  for  the  last  two  numbers  of  Punch.  Punch  and 
kisses,  and  all  well.  Frank  Coriesmore,  compared  with 
Oswald,  gave  one  a  pretty  clear  idea  of  the  quality  of  those 
families  from  one  of  which  I  spring.  In  those  days  I  didn't 
understand  them  as  I  do  now.  It  has  taken  a  war  to  make 
me  see  them  as  they  are — sea  anemones.  These  county  fam- 
ilies, you  can  watch  them  for  generations  as  you  can  for 
hours  (which  to  sea  anemones  are  a  great  part  of  a  genera- 
tion), watch  the  brown,  semiopaque  animals  hold  up  in 
placid  pools  ineffectual  and  lovely  hands  to  nutriment  which 
they  need  not  seek:  a  kindly  Destiny  has  so  arranged  it 
that  nutriment  shall  of  itself  enter  their  languid  grasp.  I 
didn't  see  all  that  then.  I  hadn't  been  a  nurse  and  found  out 
that  there's  lots  of  blood  inside  a  man;  nor  a  government 
servant,  and  realized  there's  lots  of  beastliness  in  him;  nor 
worked  for  wages;  nor  seen  what  a  harlequin's  coat  is  daily 
life.  No  harlequin  in  the  counties,  but  only  people  garbed  in 
the  tweed  best  suited  to  their  complexions,  the  tweed  of  their 
fathers,  fated  to  be  the  tweed  of  their  sons.  When  I  think 
of  the  country  gentlemen  and  the  wives  made  necessary  by 
the  instinct  of  self-reproduction  and  the  governance  of  a 
large  house,  I  am  overwhelmed  by  the  justice  of  my  com- 
parison with  the  sea  anemone.  I  used  to  think  them  dull, 


16  URSULA   TRENT 

the  hard-mouthed  women  who  rode  the  soft-mouthed  horses; 
the  elderly  ladies  who  could  afford  to  dress  worse  than  their 
cooks  because  they  were  All  Right;  the  squires,  with  their 
queer,  clipped  language,  their  G-lessness,  their  "ain'ts,"  and 
then*  "don'tchers."  I  recall  the  static  panorama  of  Hodge, 
in  the  taproom,  his  enormous  clay-caked  boots  stretched 
out  to  the  vermilion  fire,  smoking  a  clay  pipe  and  chewing 
the  cud,  his  dull  eyes  resting  through  the  window  on  the 
cow  that  squats  outside,  chewing  the  cud,  too.  It  has  been 
going  on  for  centuries,  and  I  wonder  whether,  when  a  sea 
anemone  dies,  a  junior  sea  anemone  drifts  along  on  the 
movements  of  the  sea,  which  are  like  those  of  Time;  whether 
it  drops  upon  a  rock  and  notices  the  place  on  the  rock  where 
less  slime  is  deposited  than  on  the  rest;  and  whether  it 
negligently  drops  its  anchors  on  that  spot  .  .  .  just  as  James, 
son  of  William,  William,  son  of  Howard,  drops  his  anchor 
at  Ciber  Court. 

One  has  only  to  listen  to  their  talk.  Now  that  it  all  lies 
so  far  away,  nine  years  that  include  a  war,  I  perceive  a  greater 
clarity  in  these  remembered  scraps  of  talk,  the  half -reluctant 
talk  of  people  wo  do  not  talk  easily. 


m 

When  I  think  of  these  sea  anemones,  soon  my  father 
comes  up  before  me,  and  usually  the  same  picture  at  the 
same  time.  Lunch  is  finished.  My  father  is  playing  with  his 
coffee  spoon  and  staring  into  the  smoke  that  rises  from  his 
cigar.  Mamma  is  looking  at  him  doubtfully,  from  pleasant 
brown  eyes  that  are  a  little  lighter  than  mine.  She  is  awaiting 
the  fit  moment  to  rise  and  leave  the  room.  I  wait  the  time 
of  her  rising.  I  am  aware  that  behind  the  red-baize  door  at 
the  end  of  the  dining  room  the  butler,  and  within  the  butler's 
zone  of  influence  other  menials,  are  awaiting  that  later  fit 
moment  when  my  father  shall  rise,  too,  and  leave  the  room. 
There  is  a  little  hush,  the  hush  of  attendance  upon  Sir 
William  Rodwin  Trent,  eighth  baronet,  playing  with  his 
coffee  spoon.  The  hush  also  of  half  past  two  on  a  rather 


SEA  ANEMONES  IT 

warm  day.  The  hush  that  follows  a  well-cooked  lunch.  The= 
volutes  of  blue  smoke  curl  and  uncurl  about  the  sea  anemone- 
enthroned  in  its  Georgian  armchair.  What  is  he  thinking 
of?  Was  it  not  written  that  he  should  be  eighth  baronet 
because  there  was  a  seventh?  Did  he  not  go  to  Oxford  just 
as  he  would  have  gone  to  Cambridge,  with  equal  fervor  and 
predestination,  if  he  had  been  born  seven  miles  away,  at 
Edderton  Hall? 

I'm  laughing  at  him,  but  I  mean  no  harm.  I  love  him. 
He  so  seldom  had  a  cross  word  for  me,  even  on  the  day 
when,  at  the  age  of  seven,  I  was  taken  to  see  the  Prince  of 
Wales  open  the  Thames  Institute.  I  clove  through  the  hush 
in  a  high,  childish  voice,  pointed  at  the  sacred  personage, 
and  asked,  "Who's  that  fat  man?"  Only  papa  .  .  .  well, 
will  my  children  think  me  funny?  Is  every  generation  the 
joke  of  the  next,  and  the  admiration  of  the  next  but  two? 
It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  papa's  generation  will  ever  be 
the  admiration  of  anybody.  For  the  picture  persists.  As 
mamma  rises,  papa  follows,  takes  my  arm,  and  accompanies 
us  to  the  drawing-room.  We  stop  for  a  moment  in  the  hall. 
On  the  bearskin  before  the  fire  Belinda,  our  old  bloodhound, 
is  waiting,  and,  though  it  is  June,  believes  that  she  is  wanning 
herself  by  the  empty  grate.  For  Belinda  warms  herself  there 
in  December,  and  she  is  a  martyr  to  tradition.  We  go  to 
her.  Her  tail  swishes;  she  sits  up,  and  rests  upon  us  the 
immense  melancholy  of  her  little  blood-zoned  eyes.  We 
give  her  a  bit  of  cheese.  Papa  says,  "Good  .  .  .  dog  "  (he 
picks  his  words  before  me),  "  good  stock."  He  plays  with  her 
long  ears.  "If  the  bench  weren't  packed  with  a  lot  of 
sentimentalists  and  cranks  and  faddists,  we'd  soon  run  the 
poachers  to  earth,  eh,  Bell,  old  gal?"  We  go  into  the 
drawing-room;  Belinda  pads  softly  behind  us  to  the  door, 
looks  in  hopelessly.  My  father,  as  she  expects,  says,  "Go 
back."  Depressedly,  she  goes  back.  This  has  happened 
every  day  for  nine  years,  but  to  crave  admittance  to  the 
drawing-room  is  the  tradition  of  Belinda  Trent — I  mean 
Belinda  the  bloodhound.  Papa  is  still  talking  about  the 
bench.  He  likes  being  a  J.  P.  and  fining  motorists  and  mak- 


18  URSULA   TRENT 

ing  people  abate  nuisances.  As  he  smokes  he  develops.  I 
suspect  that  he  is  approaching  social  questions.  Indeed, 
he  is.  "You  coming  to  the  meeting  at  Basingalton  to- 
morrow night?  Some  sort  of  Tariff  Reform,  what-you-call- 
it  affair.  Got  to  take  the  chair,  but  I'm  hanged  if  I'll  talk." 

His  fine  lips  purse.  Evidently  he  is  afraid  that  he  will 
have  to  talk  about  Tariff  Reform.  "Course  it's  all  right. 
Walter  Long  believes  in  it.  Still,  one  gets  tied  up  in  their 
figures."  Papa  doesn't  like  Tariff  Reform  much,  nor  the 
All  Red  Route,  nor  the  colonies.  It's  all  so  jolly  commercial 
at  bottom;  besides,  he's  met  colonials,  and  doesn't  like  their 
accent.  Lot  of  Yanks,  he  says,  privately.  Indeed,  the  evo- 
lution of  politics  is  a  nuisance.  He  is  entirely  a  man  of  the 
land,  and  what  matters  to  him  is  the  raising  of  stock,  the 
production  of  good  crops,  and  all  that  arises  from  these 
simplicities,  such  as  the  horse  show,  the  cattle  show,  the 
flower  show,  quarter  sessions,  the  meet,  the  hunt  ball,  the 
church  restoration  fund.  He  is  not  an  Imperialist;  he  is  a 
Conservative.  Of  course,  the  colonies  come  in  handy; 
India  provides  jobs  for  one's  nephews,  and  if  there's  a  rotter 
in  the  family,  it  takes  him  a  long  time  to  get  home  from 
Australia. 

At  that  time  my  father  had,  however,  certain  political 
passions,  mainly  hatreds.  He  wasn't  always  like  that.  I 
remember  very  well  that,  when  I  was  twelve,  he  favored  a 
sort  of  Conservative-Liberalism.  The  Liberal  candidate, 
who  lived  near  Reading,  came  to  dinner  rather  often,  with 
a  very  pretty  young  wife.  Until  then  I  suspect  that  my 
father  talked  to  Liberals  in  a  democratic  way  suited  to  their 
strange  aberration.  He  didn't  mind  them.  But  horrible 
things  must  have  happened  to  him.  I  grew  up  to  the  sound 
of  diatribes  against  Campbell-Bannerman,  who  gave  back 
the  Transvaal  to  the  Boers.  My  father  quarreled  with  the 
Liberals.  He  ceased  to  talk  to  any  of  the  gang.  Some  of  the 
Liberals  were  tradesmen;  by  degrees  he  ceased  to  distinguish 
between  a  Liberal  and  a  shopkeeper.  Still,  he  didn't  bother 
much;  by  degrees  they  passed  into  the  class  of  harmless 
vermin  which  misplaced  humanitarianism  forbade  him  to 


SEA  ANEMONES  19 

shoot.  It  was  only  later  on,  when  Labor  appeared  in  politics, 
that  a  more  definite  anger  began  to  pervade  my  father's 
conversation.  Whereas,  in  the  case  of  Liberals,  as  in  the 
case  of  mice,  one  merely  put  in  a  cat  to  keep  them  down, 
after  eight  or  nine  years  he  began  to  see  that  Labor  would 
require  at  least  good  sporting  terriers.  Whereas  the  Liberals 
couldn't  do  anything  to  the  land  because  the  House  of 
Lords  would  always  see  to  them  in  time,  he  found  out  that 
Labor  wanted  to  do  away  with  the  House  of  Lords.  From 
this  period  I  collect  only  the  phrase  "opening  the  floodgates 
of  revolution."  I  think  it  was  Labor  that  gave  my  father  a 
more  profound  interest  in  politics.  He  really  tried.  I  can 
see  him  bending  over  his  desk,  a  very  handsome  man  of 
fifty-four,  pepper  and  salt  about  the  head,  hair  clipped  so 
close  that  it  exposes  the  brown  cracked  surface  of  the  skin. 
Nose  beautifully  cut,  rather  pugnacious;  the  mouth  thick, 
but  sensitive;  the  lower  lip  pouting  with  an  imperious  air 
above  the  obstinate,  jutting  chin.  His  nice,  large  brown 
hands,  with  the  square-cut  finger  nails,  hold  a  pamphlet 
about  rural  housing.  Somebody  gave  it  to  him  in  Reading. 
After  a  while  he  says: 

"I  don't  know  what  the  row's  about,  Ursula.  These 
fellows  put  up  all  sorts  of  newfangled  ideas  about  bath- 
rooms and  .  .  .  and  other  things.  Want  every  cottage  to  have 
a  parlor.  Anybody  can  see  they've  never  been  beyond  the 
four-mile  radius.  Bathrooms!  If  they  brought  in  compul- 
sory baths,  it  'd  kill  half  Burleigh  Abbas.  Shock,  you  know." 

Papa  is  things  as  they  are.  He  is  not  blind.  He  knows  that 
the  roofs  leak,  that  some  of  our  cottages  have  only  two  bed- 
rooms, where  grown-up  families  sleep,  Heaven  knows  how; 
he  knows  that  the  drinking  water  comes  from  wells  that 
haven't  been  cleaned  since  Coaur  de  Lion;  he  knows  that 
most  of  the  windows  aren't  made  to  open.  And  he  explains 
it  all  by  saying  that  people  don't  want  them  to  open,  which, 
unfortunately,  is  quite  true.  He  sums  up,  "Let  'em  keep 
'em  shut  if  they  like  it."  It  sounds  like  freedom,  but  I  am 
not  sure  it  isn't  freedom  to  be  slaves.  This  talk  bothers  him. 
He  is  disturbed;  he  is  not  deeply  impressed  by  agrarian 


20  URSULA   TRENT 

troubles,  demands  for  nouses,  for  high  wages,  or  by  the 
steady  migration  of  the  young  people  to  Reading  and 
London.  He  is  disturbed,  but  not  anxious,  because  he  can- 
1  not  believe  that  anybody  will  really  interfere  with  the  land: 
that  would  be  novelty. 

It  seemed  natural,  then,  but,  now  that  I've  been  poor, 
lived  in  one  room,  and  eaten  as  I  earned,  I  think  of  papa,  of 
all  the  money  he  was  getting  out  of  the  world,  without 
doing  anything  much  hi  exchange.  He's  still  doing  it,  and 
thousands  of  his  class  with  him.  The  war  hasn't  blown  up 
the  system;  perhaps  it's  helped  it  to  crumble  ...  if  it  is 
crumbling.  Dear  papa,  was  he  justifying  himself  in  the 
world?  producing  anything?  leading  anybody?  Or  was  he 
just,  like  most  landlords,  merely  a  gentle  beast  of  prey, 
taking  a  peck  of  corn  out  of  the  bushel  the  farmer  worked 
to  raise?  Was  he  doing  anything  for  the  world  except  to  be 
an  eighth  baronet? 


Chapter  III 
Oswald  Passes 


IF  I  were  writing  a  novel,  if  I  were  not,  greatly  for  my 
own  pleasure  and  a  little  for  my  vanity,  writing  the 
story  of  my  life,  I  could  not,  as  I  am  about  to  do,  put  two  and 
a  half  years  of  war  into  a  single  chapter.  And  yet  it's  easy. 
Forgetfulness  wraps  our  memories  like  the  grass  that  grows 
on  the  trenches.  One  remembers  "The  Better  'Ole,"  though 
one  thinks  that  one  could  fill  a  whole  volume  with  the  im- 
pressions of  the  first  day.  But  then  I  didn't  receive  impres- 
sions. I  just  had  excitements,  like  other  girls.  You  know, 
uniforms,  and  guns  going  off  in  places  far  enough  away  to 
be  safe.  And  a  wild  feeling  of  artificial  hatred  against  the 
Germans,  artificial,  I  mean,  because  one  didn't  imagine  Ger- 
mans properly;  they  felt  rather  like  villains  at  Drury  Lane. 
I  suppose  my  engagement  with  Oswald  had  something  to 
do  with  that.  I  don't  want  to  be  thought  heartless,  but  on 
the  day  of  the  massacre  at  Vise,  Oswald  proposed  to  me.  I 
shall  never  recover  such  a  moment.  He  had  come  to  say 
good-by,  and  was  already  in  khaki.  Oswald  was  the  sort  of 
man  whom  the  tailor  would  serve  first  and  best.  He  looked 
extraordinarily  handsome;  he  was  one  of  the  men  whose 
complexion  khaki  suits.  The  brass  buttons  caught  up  the 
golden  brown  of  his  cheeks;  he  looked  such  a  soldier  with 
his  hair  cut  closer  than  usual.  I  don't  think  I  loved  him 
until  then,  for  now  he  was  no  longer  uncertain  and  tor- 
tured. His  gray  eyes  had  lost  all  uncertainty  as  he  said, 
"This  is  going  to  be  a  big  job,  so  it's  a  good  thing  we're 
starting  early."  Then,  after  a  pause,  in  that  grave,  pleasant 
voice  of  his,  he  said,  without  hesitation,  without  doubt,  as 


22  URSULA   TRENT 

if  facing  another  job:  "Ursula,  I've  loved  you  for  four 
years  and  never  told  you  so,  because  I  was  a  doubting  fool. 
But  there's  no  time  for  doubts  now.  If  you  care  for  me, 
will  you  marry  me  on  my  first  leave?" 

I  did  not  reply  at  once.  Somehow  I  was  disappointed. 
It  ought  to  have  been  more  fervent.  I  wanted  him  to 
tremble  under  the  shadow  of  death,  so  that  I  might  weep. 
I  don't  mean  tremble,  unless  the  Crusaders  trembled.  I 
suppose  they  did.  I  nearly  said  "No,"  and  he,  being  sensi- 
tive, must  have  felt  it,  for  something  passed  in  his  eyes,  like 
a  gull  nose-diving.  He  seized  my  hands  and  crushed  them, 
as  if  he  hated  me,  wanted  to  hurt  me.  He  looked  mad.  So 
I  told  myself,  "It  is  I  who  am  driving  him  mad,"  and  an 
immensely  soft,  warm  f eeling  of  power  filled  me.  I  half  wished 
he  would  go  mad.  Then  .  .  .  one  can't  analyze  beyond  a 
certain  point,  his  passion  and  that  glimpsed  despair,  the 
powerful  excitement  of  the  times,  this  sudden  sense  of  my 
mastery  blended  with  my  weakness.  I  was  afraid  of  this 
world  around  me,  quivering  like  the  lid  of  a  kettle  that  boils. 
Oswald  looked  strong  and  permanent;  I  wanted  the  shelter 
of  his  arms.  I  found  myself  there  without  knowing  how, 
nearly  crying  with  excitement.  And  when  he  lifted  my 
head  to  kiss  me,  to  give  me  the  first  kiss  of  the  lips  of  a  true 
lover,  I  had  a  sense  of  ease.  Like  discovering  the  solution 
of  a  problem.  At  last  I  kissed  his  slightly  rough  cheek  in 
abandonment,  and  that  moment  was  overlooked  by  the 
scythe  of  time. 


I  went  into  a  hospital  at  Woking.  After  the  early  rebellion 
against  scrubbing  and  dishwashing,  came  the  Gustave  Dore 
hell.  Think  of  it:  in  my  whole  life  I'd  seen  nothing  worse 
than  a  cut  finger  .  .  .  and  when  at  last  I  was  qualified,  my 
first  operation  was  a  leg  amputation.  I  laugh  at  myself 
now  as  I  remember  the  beads  of  cold  sweat  upon  my  fore- 
head, as  I  listened  to  the  grating  of  the  saw  on  the  bone,  and 
Doctor  Chorley's  voice  coming  to  me  through  a  pale-yellow 


OSWALD  PASSES  23 

mist,  "If  you're  going  to  be  sick,  go  outside."  I  suppose 
that  within  a  year  I  could  have  seen  men  fried  alive  while  I 
ate  chocolates.  One  might  think — at  least,  people  say  so — 
that  this  sort  of  thing  must  harden  a  girl.  Well,  I  don't 
know.  It  takes  a  lot  to  harden  or  to  soften  people  for  good. 
People  who  never  have  done  it  get  a  fanciful  idea  of  nurses. 
They  seem  to  think  that  we  are  sweet  angels,  like  Florence 
Nightingale,  smoothing  the  fevered  brow  of  the  wounded 
hero,  and  that  in  our  other  hand  we  hold  a  lamp.  They  for- 
get that  most  lamps  are  difficult  to  sterilize.  Radiating  sweet 
womanhood  indeed!  We  never  radiated  anything  but  lysol. 
I  think  lysol  is  my  most  permanent  impression  of  the  war. 
I  never  quite  got  used  to  it.  It  clung  even  to  the  soup.  And 
bismuth  was  worse.  It  was  bismuth,  I  think,  that  brought 
about  my  friendship  with  a  private  whom  I  knew  only  as 
Tim,  who  remarked  to  me:  "Smells  like  a  fairy  bower,  don't 
it,  nurse?  which  shows  that  there's  pros  and  cons  in  this 
war.  It's  smelly  out  there,  but  there's  more  variety." 

Nurse  Garthorpe  hated  the  patients.  Yet  she  hated  me 
because  they  liked  me.  I  can  still  feel  her  very  light-blue 
eyes  watching  me  through  her  pale  eyelashes,  and  see  her 
long  upper  lip  lift  with  an  air  of  contempt.  She  hated  me  so 
much  that  at  first  she  tried  to  save  me  and  to  take  me  to 
church.  After  her  failure,  I  think  I  can  conclude  from 
certain  of  her  expressions,  the  cheerful  ones,  that  she  rejoiced 
in  the  idea  that  I  would  be  damned.  Well,  if  I  am,  I  hope 
she'll  be  there  to  see  me;  it  will  ease  her  own  pains. 

Already  the  others  are  dim,  except  Doctor  Chorley,  con- 
verted from  a  man  into  a  machine  that  said  things  like, 
"That  '11  do,  nurse;  don't  fuss."  Or,  "I  asked  you  for  a 
sponge,  not  for  your  opinion."  But  young  Doctor  Upnor 
passes  for  a  moment  across  the  screen,  a  more  interesting 
figure.  He  was  very  dark,  about  thirty,  and  he  hadn't  the 
rages  of  Doctor  Chorley.  The  old  man  was  furious  because 
his  violent  patriotism  and  his  equally  violent  emotions  had 
compelled  him  to  leave  his  practice.  Doctor  Upnor  was  a 
ship's  doctor  and  just  before  the  war  had  come  ashore  to 
marry.  His  marriage  did  not  prevent  his  seeking  my  com- 


24  URSULA   TRENT 

pany  and  giving  me  unnecessary  trouble  with  charts,  or 
sending  for  me  to  bring  up  the  medical  sheets  of  cases  en- 
tirely devoid  of  interest.  At  the  end,  he  was  even  so  clumsy 
that  he  insisted  on  examining  my  right  hand  for  a  fancied 
deviation  of  the  metacarp.  It  was  not  my  fault,  for  of 
course  I  wasn't  allowed  to  wear  my  engagement  ring.  Also, 
he  interested  me.  He  was  not  a  rigid  Socialist,  but  rather 
a  man  who  had  picked  up  ideas  in  the  wardroom,  a  place 
where  one  must  discuss  life  and  things  when  one's  at  sea  and 
the  newspapers  are  a  week  old.  But  I  didn't  think  of  him 
much  until  later,  for,  in  December,  'fourteen,  while  on  night 
patrol,  Oswald  was  killed.  We  were  to  have  been  married 
at  the  end  of  January,  when  he  expected  to  get  leave.  He 
was  killed  just  as  I  was  about  to  put  in  for  leave  to  buy  my 
trousseau.  So  at  first  nobody  knew  at  the  hospital,  and  this 
helped  me,  for  I  had  no  time  to  absorb  myself  in  what  would 
have  been  an  immense  grief.  No  time  for  grief  .  .  .  that's 
almost  the  history  of  the  war.  I  remember  well  the  note 
from  Lady  Halkyn.  It  was  so  short  and  just  what  it  ought 
to  have  been  from  the  sweet  woman  she  was: 

MY  POOR  CHILD, — Oswald  was  killed  the  day  before  yesterday. 
We  are  both  very  unhappy.  Try  to  work  hard.  I  am  old  and 
can  only  pray. 

I  read  it  two  or  three  times;  it  came  by  the  second  post. 
Then  we  went  in  to  lunch.  It  was  boiled  beef  and  dumpling. 
I  had  a  second  helping  of  dumpling  without  quite  knowing 
what  I  was  doing.  Then,  hi  a  sort  of  stupor,  I  washed  up. 
I  wasn't  qualified  then. 

And  that's  nearly  all.  It  was  only  a  little  later  that  I 
began  to  regret  Oswald,  that  I  found  myself  ill  with  a  sort 
of  reaction  from  excitement.  There  had  been  so  little  that  I 
felt  the  future  ought  to  have  held  a  great  deal;  it  had  come 
just  as,  half  afraid,  half  curious,  I  realized  that  in  a  few 
weeks  I  should  be  a  new  creature,  a  woman,  no  longer  pre- 
occupied, pure  still,  impure  by  license.  People  think  young 
girls  don't  brood  over  these  things,  but  we  do;  we're  so 
horribly  ignorant  that  we  brood  more  than  the  passionate 


OSWALD  PASSES  25 

male;  he  has  nothing  to  learn.  Now  the  fearful  hope  was 
gone;  he  lay  dead  out  there.  It  wasn't  like  dying  at  home. 
I  was  seeing  men  die  slowly.  One  was  told  things  about  their 
condition.  There  was  chatter  about  an  operation.  But 
being  killed  out  there,  it  just  meant  that  somebody  who  had 
already  gone  out  of  one's  life  figured  still  less  in  it.  First 
Oswald  was,  and  then  he  wasn't.  Besides,  I  had  too  much 
to  do.  It  was  that  feeling,  no  doubt,  made  me  tell  Doctor 
Upnor  nearly  a  year  later.  "Am  I  a  beast?"  I  said.  "Do 
you  think  I  am  heartless?" 

He  looked  at  me  thoughtfully.  "Well  ...  no.  Feelings 
aren't  compulsory.  A  thing  affects  you  in  one  way  or  in 
another.  People  say  it's  your  heart.  I  say  it's  your  solar 
plexus." 

"That's  a  very  material  way  of  putting  it." 

"You  can't  get  away  from  it.  Sometimes  I  think  that 
love  is  merely  a  morbid  secretion  of  the  reproductive  instinct. 
We  have  degenerated  a  lot  from  the  animals.  The  stag 
doesn't  ask  himself  whether  his  mate  is  well  bred  or  well 
off.  If  he  loses  his  mate,  the  next  does  quite  as  well."  He 
smiled.  "  In  that  sense  we  may  not  be  so  different,  after  all." 

I  laughed.  One  can't  help  liking  cynicism  when  it  goes  far 
enough.  That  day  we  had  a  long  talk.  It  wandered  away 
from  Oswald  into  a  little  personal  history,  and  Doctor  Upnor 
suddenly  revealed  an  unreasonable  democratic  hatred  of  my 
class. 

"You  people,"  he  said,  "these  wars  are  good  for  you. 
Gives  you  a  touch  of  reality.  It's  not  good  for  anybody  to 
drink  his  chocolate  out  of  a  Rockingham  cup.  It  cuts  you 
off  from  the  fact  that  most  of  the  world  is  drinking  stewed 
tea  out  of  chipped  mugs.  Ever  seen  a  breakfast  table  where 
no  two  bits  of  crockery  match?" 

"No,"  I  said,  "but  is  it  necessary?" 

"  It  is.  Just  that  you  should  know  it.  The  illusions  of  the 
poor  about  the  rich  are  nothing  to  those  of  the  rich  about 
the  poor.  People  like  you  are  like  Marie  Antoinette,  and  say 
to  the  people  ^who  clamor  because  they  have  no  bread, 
'Well,  let  'em  eat  cake.'" 


26  URSULA   TRENT 

"Well,"  I  said,  aggressively,  "I  can't  help  being  what  I 
am." 

He  softened.  "Oh,  it's  not  a  charge  against  you  I'm 
making.  I'm  not  even  so  impertinent  as  to  offer  my  sym- 
pathy. But,  you  know,  one  way  and  another,  I've  had  a 
lot  to  do  with  people  of  position  on  ships,  ladies,  especially; 
they're  generally  bad  sailors:  one  can  afford  to  when  one's 
got  a  maid  who  isn't.  And,  on  the  whole,  I  think  the  posi- 
tion is  they're  rather  a  slack,  irresolute  crowd." 

"The  men  know  how  to  die,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  but  they  don't  know  how  to  live.  They  merely 
knock  balls  about.  Golf  balls,  tennis  balls,  cricket  balls. 
They'll  take  a  swipe  at  anything  except  the  globe.  I  doctored 
a  Cabinet  Minister  once.  He  didn't  know  the  difference 
between  Silesia  and  Sicily,  and  his  one  idea  of  intellectual 
recreation  was  jig-saw  puzzles.  At  other  times  he  slept  or 
ordered  people  about.  Fortunately  his  civil  servants  altered 
his  instructions,  and  no  harm  was  done.  If  you  don't  mind 
me  saying  so,  all  these  people  born  rich  and  wealthy,  they're 
like  whales  thrown  up  on  the  beach  by  the  industrial  move- 
ments of  the  world.  They  lie  on  the  beach  and  heave,  taking 
up  the  space  of  millions  of  respectable  winkles.  And,  by 
some  zoological  prodigy,  they  have  lungs  as  well  as  gills, 
and  so  they  go  on  heaving  and  heaving,  and  will  go  on  until 
the  inspired  winkles  heave  them  back  into  the  sea." 

I  thought  he  talked  nonsense,  though  perhaps  it  isn't  so 
far  from  whales  to  sea  anemones.  Doctor  Upnor  saw  the 
upper  class  large,  because  he  wasn't  of  them;  being  of  them, 
I  saw  them  small.  But  he  stimulated  me,  and  a  sort  of 
respect,  as  if  for  Oswald,  prevented  him  from  making  ad- 
vances to  me  that  day.  He  was  kind,  really,  pointed  out  that 
I  was  very  young,  and  added:  "After  all,  they  say  that 
man  who  has  suffered  from  woman  can  be  healed  by  none 
save  woman.  Likewise,  women  who  lose  their  lovers  in  war 
at  the  hands  of  men  can,  I  suppose,  be  healed  by  men." 

I  owe  a  great  deal  to  Doctor  Upnor;  he  taught  me  to 
read.  Before  I  knew  him  I  was  well  content  with  the  novels 
of  Locke  and  E.  F.  Benson;  my  greatest  earnestness  led  me 


OSWALD  PASSES  27 

to  Mr.  E.  V.  Lucas.  Doctor  Upnor  gave  me  library  lists, 
and  through  him  I  came  to  know  the  novel  of  significance, 
the  poems  of  Sassoon,  the  irreverence  of  Lytton  Strachey. 
He  broke  my  mind  open.  But  I  was  not  to  stay  in  the  hos- 
pital to  the  end  of  the  war.  It  was  not  only  that  Doctor 
Chorley  was  too  rude,  and  Doctor  Upnor  too  kind;  it  was 
that  the  women  rejoiced  too  much  in  that  rudeness  and  that 
kindness.  Toward  the  end  of  1916, 1  had  gone  up  to  Doctor 
Upnor's  room  with  a  paper,  I  forget  what,  but  it  was  quite 
genuine.  Just  as  we  had  finished,  Matron  came  in,  looked 
at  us,  said  nothing,  said  that  nothing  which  between  women 
amounts  to  a  shout  of  anger.  I  didn't  think  about  it  any 
more.  I  went  home  on  leave  for  a  week,  and  found  the  sea 
anemones  were  turning  into  almost  invisible  microbes. 
Papa  was  recruiting,  standing  on  carts  and  talking  about 
glory  and  duty  .  .  .  and  I  couldn't  help  thinking  it  queer,  I, 
who  the  day  before  had  been  clearing  up  fingers  and  bits  of 
flesh.  We  were  having  an  "  at  home  "  for  the  Prince  of  Wales's 
Fund;  people  were  still  knitting;  the  papers  were  seeing  the 
funny  side  of  the  war,  which  I,  being  a  woman,  I  suppose, 
never  grasped.  Of  that  visit  I  retain  a  confused  impression 
of  everybody  being  busy  in  connection  with  the  war,  saving 
food,  or  getting  married,  but  at  bottom  eating  as  usual, 
marrying  as  usual,  and  covertly  cursing  because  hunting  as 
usual  wasn't  done.  I  had  a  vision  of  my  sea  anemones  de- 
tached from  their  rock  by  an  unexampled  storm,  and  drifting 
about  a  little:  as  soon  as  the  storm  subsided  they  would 
slowly  sink  again  to  the  bottom  of  the  equable,  immemorial 
waters,  and  fasten  once  more  to  the  same  old  spot  with  the 
same  old  tentacles. 

I  went  back  to  the  hospital,  and,  a  week  later,  for  no 
reason  except  that  I  was  what  he  called  unsuitable,  Doctor 
Chorley  asked  me  to  resign.  Matron,  I  suppose.  It  is  a 
funny  feeling  being,  as  I  learned  to  call  it,  sacked.  One  is 
excited,  a  personage;  it  must  be  very  stimulating  to  be 
sentenced  to  be  hanged,  to  be  distinguished  from  one's 
fellows.  One  goes  about  telling  one's  friends  that  one's 
going,  and  privately  that  one's  got  the  sack;  to  one's  semi- 
3 


28  URSULA   TRENT 

enemies,  one  suggests  that  one  wasn't  going  to  stick  it  any 
longer  and  that  one  resigned.  In  a  way  one  feels  relieved: 
that  bit  of  one's  life  work  is  done  and  the  future  opens.  It 
is  rather  nice  in  a  way:  one  is  in  life  rather  like  a  kitten 
entangled  in  a  ball  of  wool,  and,  oh,  the  delight  of  suddenly 
escaping  from  the  wool!  One  knows  that  life  will  probably 
tempt  one  into  another  entanglement,  but  it  '11  be  another, 
and  one  has  to  get  very  old  in  mind  before  one  echoes  the 
gloomy  puppy  of  the  picture  postcard,  who  describes  life  as 
merely  one  damn  thing  after  the  other.  Of  course  I  didn't 
feel  all  that  just  then,  not  clearly.  I  mean  that  already 
after  eighteen  months  of  war,  lysol,  and  liberty  I  was  a  very 
different  girl  from  the  hunting  miss,  the  dancing  miss,  who 
liked  the  novels  of  Marie  Corelli,  improved  her  mind  (on  the 
sly)  with  the  memoirs  of  Lady  Cardigan,  and  saw  Me  as  a 
sort  of  cricket  match  between  her  class  and  the  rest  of  the 
world.  The  rest  being  nowhere.  In  a  way  Doctor  Upnor 
had  something  to  do  with  it.  I  don't  mean  that  he  taught 
me  things,  but  he  stimulated  something  that  was  there,  a 
sort  of  mental  curiosity  which  hadn't  been  satisfied.  For 
instance,  in  our  last  talk,  the  day  I  left  the  hospital,  I  re- 
member that  in  a  fit  of  depression  that  followed  the  elation 
of  my  dismissal  I  had  decided  to  be  a  better  girl,  and  bought 
most  of  Tennyson,  bound  in  one  volume,  to  read  in  the  train. 
Now  I  hate  poetry.  I  suppose  it's  crude  of  me,  but  I  feel  that 
to  write  poetry  is  just  a  way  of  getting  oneself  misunderstood 
in  a  complicated  manner.  But  everybody  says  one  ought  to 
read  poetry,  and  everywhere  I  have  ever  been  I  have  found 
volumes  of  poetry,  mostly  uncut  and  some  with  dusty  tops. 
Well,  that  was  my  first  and  my  last  serious  attempt  to  read 
poetry,  for  Doctor  Upnor  picked  up  the  book,  and  his  dark 
eyes  fixed  on  me  his  sideways,  ironical  look.  "Oh!  oh!"  he 
said,  "so  we're  going  back  to  Hampshire  to  hear  'the  mellow 
ouzel  fluting  in  the  elm.'  We're  going  to  derive  broad  courage 
and  splendid  faith  from  the  rhythmic  teacher  who  tells  us 
that  there  are  'So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do,  so  little  done, 
such  things  to  be."* 

"  Don't  laugh  at  me,"  I  said.    " One  ought  to  read  poetry." 


OSWALD  PASSES  29 

He  laughed.  "You  know,  Miss  Trent,  I  didn't  expect  you 
to  succumb  to  superstition.  Poetry  is  only  a  superstition. 
A  sort  of  degraded  music.  Oh,  I  know  you  and  lovely  lines 
here  and  there,  and  I  would  gladly  say  to  you: 

"'Bid  me  to  live  and  I  will  live,  thy  Protestant  to  be  .  .  .' 

though  I  suppose  it  would  be  more  appropriate  in  our  cir- 
cumstances to  quote  Jung  Werner  and  say:  'May  God 
protect  thee!  'Twould  have  been  too  sweet.'  But  all  the 
same,  everything  that  is  said  in  poetry  can  be  said  in  prose 
more  easily  and  more  completely.  The  fact  remains  that  if 
you  want  a  rhyme  to  'cat,'  it  must  be  something  like  mat,  or 
pat,  or  rat.  Now  rat  happens  to  fit,  and  all  is  well  in  that 
case.  But  imagine  the  wretched  situation  of  a  poet  with  his 
cat  hero  in  a  barn  where  there  are  no  rats,  but  only  mice. 
He  would  have  to  torture,  to  mangle  his  line  so  as  to  end: 
*A  mouse,  not  rat.'  In  other  words  he  would  have  to  drag 
in  the  wretched  rat." 

"But  the  melodious  sound!"  I  said,  feebly. 

"If  you  want  melody,  buy  a  penny  whistle.  And,  any- 
how, if  all  you  want  is  melody,  why  bother  about  the  sense 
at  all?  Why  not  juxtapose  words  that  sound  well,  such  as 
purple,  primula,  Endymion?  There's  quite  a  nice  line  for 
you:  'Endymion's  purple  primula.'  Doesn't  mean  any- 
thing, but  sounds  well.  That's  why  it's  poetry.  Miss  Trent, 
let  me  give  you  that  opinion  of  poetry  as  a  keepsake,  since 
you're  leaving  the  world — I  mean  returning  to  your  family. 
Don't  be  taken  in.  Neither  by  political  traditions,  nor  by 
class  habits,  nor  by  the  worship  of  Latin  or  Greek  or  poetry 
or  the  musical  glasses.  There  is  only  one  test,  whether  of  a 
thing  or  of  a  man — Do  I  like  it?  Don't  ask  yourself  whether 
you  ought  to  like  it.  If  you  don't  like  it,  it  isn't  good  for 
you.  A  dog  will  not  eat  powdered  glass,  because  instinct 
tells  him  it  is  not  a  nice  diet.  Well,  trust  your  instinct. 
Sniff  that  powdered  glass  carefully,  every  variety  of  it  you 
may  meet.  Fear  no  experience.  But  please  don't  go  farther 
in  experience  which  you  are  not  really  drawn  to."  He  held 


30  URSULA   TRENT 

my  hand  for  a  moment.  "Good-by.  I  don't  suppose  I 
shall  see  you  again  unless  you  want  me  to." 

I  did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  but  freed  my  hand,  for  I 
was  rather  afraid  he  was  going  to  kiss  me.  I  didn't  mind  the 
idea,  but  it  made  me  nervous,  because  I  didn't  know  how  I 
stood  with  him.  So  I  just  said:  "Oh,  I  shall  be  doing  some- 
thing else.  I  expect  we'll  come  across  each  other." 

I  gave  Tennyson  to  Nurse  Garthorpe.  She  was  a  serious 
woman,  and  I  expect  she  forced  herself  to  read  it.  I  was 
beginning  to  develop  into  a  woman  since  I  was  getting  subtle 
in  revenge. 


Chapter  IV 
Heritors 


TT  isn't  easy  to  live  at  home.  If  I  have  daughters  and  they 
A  grow  up,  I  shall  turn  them  out  at  twenty  with  a  check 
and  a  blessing.  Perhaps  then  they'll  just  mob  my  front 
door.  When  I  think  of  the  many  girls  I  have  met,  on  the 
stage,  in  manicure  shops,  on  the  streets,  and  that  nearly  all 
of  them  have  simply  bolted  from  home,  from  what  is  called 
a  good  home  (so  called  I  suspect,  because  a  good  home  is  an 
ideal  and  therefore  doesn't  exist),  I  come  to  believe  that  the 
young  should  at  a  certain  time  be  separated  from  the  old 
and  placed  in  severely  classified  internment  camps.  After 
all,  home  is  an  internment  camp;  all  one  can  do  seems  to  be 
to  make  another  camp,  with  oneself  as  commandant.  But 
the  prisoners  worry  one. 

I  think  I  was  rather  a  worry  to  mamma.  Before  the  war 
I  was  a  worry  because  I  had  to  be  amused  and,  if  possible, 
married.  I  had  to  be  provided  with  horses,  which  mamma 
always  felt  weren't  reliable.  I  had  to  have  frocks  ordered 
for  me,  which  meant  going  to  town  with  mamma,  who  hates 
railway  journeys;  I  had  to  have  parties  given  for  me,  though 
mamma  cares  for  the  society  of  hardly  anyone  save  Aunt 
Augusta.  I  remember  the  pucker  between  her  eyebrows 
when  one  of  my  parties  had  to  be  given  and  it  was  suddenly 
discovered  that  the  parlor  maids  had  secretly  broken  most 
of  the  glass.  That  concerned  the  housekeeper,  but  at  heart 
mamma  was  the  housekeeper.  She  liked  it.  Housekeeping 
irritated  her,  but  still  she  liked  it,  as  a  saint  rejoicing  in  his 
hair  shirt.  Still  she  did  it  all,  brave  mamma,  with  her  pretty 
brown  eyes,  her  soft  gray  hair,  her  sweet,  faintly  silly  con- 


32  URSULA   TRENT 

versation.  I  wouldn't  have  had  her  otherwise.  She  did  her 
bit  properly.  (How  horrified  she  would  be  if  she  could  hear 
me  saying  of  her  anything  so  dreadful  as  "she  did  her  bit.") 
She  got  Isabel  married  and  me  engaged. 

Poor  mamma!  She  was  a  casualty  in  a  way.  She  didn't 
expect  her  younger  daughter  to  come  back  from  hospital  to 
tell  her  to  strafe  a  servant,  or  to  remark  that  there  were 
"umpteen"  pheasants  in  the  covert  ready  for  shooting. 
Mamma  recovered  a  daughter  who  smoked  gaspers  and 
crossed  her  legs.  Mamma  heard  her  daughter  say  "damn." 
I  expect  poor  mamma  would  have  put  that  right  by  degrees, 
as  refining  influences  blotted  out  the  barbed-wire  entangle- 
ments erected  by  the  war  on  my  personality;  even  though 
papa  gave  her  no  help.  I  read  somewhere  that  a  Frenchman 
said  that  in  the  heart  of  every  man  lies  a  sleeping  pig.  Papa's 
animal  is  different,  it's  more  like  a  sleeping  dog,  a  rakish  sort 
of  fox  terrier  who  roves  the  streets  seeking  adventures.  If 
papa  hadn't  been  so  rich  he'd  have  gone  into  the  world  and 
been  a  nut,  like  Uncle  Victor.  So  papa  said,  "  Really,  Ursula, 
I  don't  know  what  you  girls  are  coming  to,"  and  gave  me  a 
cigarette.  He  thought  me  rather  fun;  he  went  about  hoping 
that  I  wasn't  flirting,  and  conveying  that  he  had  an  open 
mind  if  I  wanted  to  confess. 

But  he,  too,  was  to  have  his  troubles.  I  feel  very  ungrate- 
ful when  I  think  of  it,  but  I  couldn't  stand  being  suspended 
like  this  at  Burleigh  Abbas.  Burleigh  Abbas!  What  a 
name.  Like  Horsted  Keynes,  or  Whitechurch  Canonicorum. 
Could  anything  possibly  happen  in  places  called  like  that? 
You  see,  in  the  hospital,  the  men  had  told  me  a  good  deal 
about  places  like  Bradford  and  Wigan.  They  sounded  like 
real  places.  I  gathered  that  there  was  no  room  in  Wigan  for 
whales  to  do  any  heaving,  that  in  Wigan  the  whale  would 
at  once  be  boiled  for  its  blubber.  I  had  a  vision,  through  the 
halting  speech  of  these  northerners,  of  massed  gray  streets, 
sooty  pavements,  tall  smokestacks,  inky  cranes,  outlined 
against  a  sky  almost  as  black.  A  panorama  that  shook  as 
industry  made  things,  trepidated  with  machinery,  and  scarred 
the  country  with  spreading  heaps  of  glittering  slag.  Now  I 


HERITORS  S3 

was  at  Burleigh  Abbas.  It  may  seem  strange,  but  the  thing 
that  drove  me  out  again  was  no  fever  of  agitation;  it  was  a 
joke.  There  is  always  a  joke  going  round  in  a  country  house, 
generally  a  silly  one.  It  is  used  several  times  a  day  for  about 
a  week.  Later,  it  crops  up  again  at  growing  intervals.  For 
in  country  houses  very  little  happens,  so  jokes  are  spread 
out.  In  this  case,  we  had  a  man  staying  for  the  week-end,  a 
certain  Captain  Stanhope.  The  night  he  arrived,  most  of 
the  west  wing  was  flooded,  including  its  bathroom.  So 
he  had  to  use  the  bathroom  attached  to  my  bedroom. 
(Bathrooms  had  forced  their  way  into  Giber  Court,  and  we 
had  only  two  on  that  floor.)  Of  course  I  hurried  on  the 
Sunday  morning,  but  he  didn't,  and  as  in  my  haste  I  had  left 
my  toothbrush  in  the  bathroom,  I  didn't  know  what  to  do. 
I  listened  to  him  splashing  for  some  time;  when  he  came  out, 
and  devoted  what  seemed  endless  days  of  drying  himself,  I 
could  bear  it  no  more,  and,  gently  opening  the  door,  I  put 
in  my  hand  and  asked  for  my  toothbrush,  which  he  gave  me. 
But  at  breakfast  he  let  out  the  mild  incident.  The  whole  of 
that  week-end  was  filled  with  humorous  allusions  to  the 
intimate  relations  existing  between  us;  we  were  sharing  a 
bathroom.  Was  it  compromising  for  a  young  man  and  a 
young  woman  to  share  a  bathroom  if  they  did  not  share  it 
simultaneously?  Did  he  brush  my  teeth  for  me?  After 
laughing  four  times  or  so,  I  got  maddened;  on  the  Tuesday 
night  I  was  rude  to  papa  when  at  dinner  he  asked  who  would 
next  week-end  share  Ursula's  bathroom. 

So  I  went  to  Basingalton,  where  a  little  old  man  who  had 
failed  as  a  music  master  taught  shorthand  and  typewriting 
in  a  dusty,  copying  office.  Oh,  how  I  hate  shorthand!  It's 
so  easy  to  do,  and  so  illegible  when  you've  done  it.  And 
typing!  I  thought  it  would  take  me  years  to  learn  not  to 
put  "thr"  for  "the."  As  for  inserting  a  new  ribbon!  One 
wants  motor  gloves  and  a  mackintosh.  I  practiced  on  a 
hired  machine  at  home,  "Now  is  the  time  for  all  good  men 
to  come  to  the  aid  of  their  party,"  to  get  my  speed  up. 
Papa  said  it  sounded  worse  than  the  piano.  So,  at  the  end 
of  three  months,  I  was  very  bad,  and  was  at  once  engaged  at 


34  URSULA   TRENT 

the  Food  Control  Office  at  Basingalton.  I  arranged  this 
without  too  much  difficulty;  papa  and  mamma  felt  a  little 
disgraced  by  the  venture,  which  was  quite  different  from  my 
Florence  Nightingaling,  but  they  were  hampered  by  their 
period — girls  were  doing  these  things. 

So  I  became  a  servant  of  the  state.  How  splendid  that 
sounds  until  you  start  filing.  The  Food  Control  Office  at 
Basingalton  was  located  in  a  warehouse  attached  to  Basingal- 
ton Town  Hall,  which  had  been  divided  into  small  rooms  by 
an  immense  number  of  matchboard  partitions.  My  atten- 
tion was  drawn  to  this  conformation  of  the  building  by 
seeing  my  chief,  Mr.  Knowle,  turn  an  almost  obviously 
attentive  ear  toward  the  conversation  which  was  being  con- 
ducted on  the  other  side.  This  did  not  surprise  me  in  Mr. 
Knowle.  I  had  never  met  anyone  quite  like  him  before. 
He  had,  I  think,  been  departmental  manager  hi  a  big  London 
dairy,  and  somehow  he  had  been  made  director  of  Section  B 
in  the  Basingalton  Food  Control.  We  dealt  with  cheese, 
butter,  milk,  and  all  dairy  offals.  It  was  not  dull.  Farmers 
came  in  furious  and  went  out  fuddled.  I  confess  that  I  my- 
self took  an  occasional  malignant  delight  in  making  a  large 
perspiring  man  fill  in  several  colored  forms.  When  he  asked 
why  we  hadn't  answered  his  month-old  letter,  I  crushed  him 
by  giving  him  a  new  green  form  and  telling  him  that  if  he 
would  rewrite  his  statement  on  that  form,  we  would  attribute 
to  it  its  proper  reference  number,  and  I  could  assure  him  all 
would  be  well.  Mr.  Knowle  was  very  remarkable.  He  was 
a  long,  thin  man,  sheltered  by  long,  thin,  gray  hair;  a  reddish- 
yellow  nose,  rather  like  an  undeveloped  Swede,  gave  through 
its  turn-up  an  ah*  of  mean  ferocity  to  his  countenance.  The 
remarkable  nose,  the  broken  teeth,  the  furtive,  sharp  eye, 
gave  one  the  impression  of  a  ratlike  meanness.  A  rat  with  a 
touch  of  peacock.  (The  maximum  of  cross  breeding.)  I 
became  his  shorthand  typist.  He  sat  behind  his  desk, 
cleaning  his  angular  finger  nails  with  a  pocket  knife.  That 
was  a  characteristic;  to  the  end  of  our  acquaintance  we 
seldom  conversed  free  from  this  ceremonial,  but  the  deeper 
Mr.  Knowle  dug,  the  dirtier  his  nails  got.  "Yes,"  he  said, 


HERITORS  35 

"I  think  you'll  do."  He  tittered:  "But  you'll  have  to  pay 
strict  attention  to  business,  look!  For  you  young  ladies" 
(titter),  "you  only  think  about  dances,  eh?  and  parties,  eh? 
Well  now,  shall  we  make  a  start,  look?  We've  no  time  to 
waste  when  the  country's  in  danger,  look!"  (Welsh?  Or  is 
it:  Look  you?)  He  dictated.  We  began  with  a  letter  to  a 
fanner,  who  complained  of  the  nonreturn  of  his  churns.  At 
a  certain  sentence  Mr.  Knowle  broke  off. 

".  .  .  and  though  the  Minister  cannot  commit  himself  to  the 
statement  that  the  churns  have  been  delayed  by  or  owing  to 
action  taken  by  officials  under  his  control,  he  is  nevertheless 
aware  that  irresponsible  action  taken  by  officials  not  so  employed 
might  lead  the  aforesaid  officials  to  condone  what  might  be  de- 
scribed as  an  irregular  status  quo." 

Mr.  Knowle  threw  himself  back  in  his  armchair  and  com- 
bined his  incredible  finger  nails.  "There,  Miss  Trent,"  he 
said,  "is  a  model  official  letter,  look."  He  winked  at  me 
vigorously.  "Never  commit  yourself,  Miss  Trent,  eh?"  I 
smiled  dutifully.  He  smiled  back.  We  were  getting  on. 

At  first  Mr.  Knowle  irritated  me.  He  was  always  "wan- 
gling," as  he  called  it;  it  maddened  me  that,  whenever  he 
telephoned,  he  had  to  display  for  my  impressment  his  pea- 
cock-rat personality.  I  can  hear  him:  "Ah!  ha!  That 
would  be  telling  you  too  much."  (Wink,  wink,  sideways 
smile  at  me.)  "But  don't  you  think  the  proposal  should 
come  from  you?"  (Shrug  of  left  shoulder  and  wily  gesture 
with  eyebrow.)  The  conversation  then  ends:  "Well,  well, 
suppose  you  come  and  see  me,  look?  and  we  can  talk." 
(He  throws  himself  back  in  his  armchair  and  yells  with 
laughter.)  Then,  in  a  penetrating  tone,  to  me,  "He'll  only 
get  it  verbally,  look!" 

Then  I  grew  amused  and  sat  down  to  the  comedy  of  Mr. 
Knowle.  He  was  rather  disgusting,  I  suppose;  when  he 
wasn't  bragging  he  was  making  a  fuss.  I  had  to  go  with  him 
one  afternoon  in  the  car  to  Reading,  not  that  he  wanted  me, 
but  because  the  director  of  Section  B  must  have  his  secre- 
tary in  attendance.  No  doubt  he  would  have  liked  to  tell 


36  URSULA   TRENT 

me  how  he  had  started  an  office  boy  at  fourteen  and  ended 
as  director  of  Section  B,  but  the  local  A.  S.  C.  depot  had 
sent  us  an  old  car  on  which  they  were  trying  a  new  girl.  We 
passed  a  little  time  with  a  wheel  in  a  ditch,  during  which  it 
rained  with  beautiful  steadiness,  while  Mr.  Knowle  ran  from 
side  to  side,  yelping,  offering  no  help  to  the  girl.  Fortunately 
she  expected  the  accident,  for  she  had  brought  a  jack  and 
stolidly  levered  up  the  axle,  while  Mr.  Knowle  yapped  about 
the  danger,  and  the  damage  done  to  national  interests  by 
his  delay  in  reaching  Reading.  Also  about  the  indignity 
offered  to  the  director  of  Section  B.  When  at  last  we  started 
again  he  resumed  the  conversation  on  danger,  delay,  and 
dignity.  These  topics  employed  also  a  great  deal  of  time  at 
the  Reading  Central  Office;  in  an  attenuated  form  they 
pervaded  the  office  for  the  next  two  or  three  days. 

Yet  he  was  enjoying  himself  very  much.  He  had  had  more 
people  under  him  than  he  had  now,  but  it  had  been  private 
service,  while  now,  as  he  always  put  it,  he  was  under  the 
Crown.  Whether  "under"  was  what  he  meant  I  am  not 
quite  sure.  Also  he  was  very  busy,  for  he  was  one  of  those 
men  who  have  lost  all  taste  for  anything  but  work.  He  had 
worked  so  hard  that  on  Sundays  he  could  think  of  nothing 
else  to  do  than  invade  a  sleepy  depot  and  ask  the  watchman, 
who  didn't  know,  to  see  "that  everything  was  all  right  on  the 
Monday  morning,  look."  He  liked  work  for  work's  sake; 
he  found  a  sort  of  abstract  good  in  the  twelve-hour  day,  and 
made  us  do  it  so  far  as  he  could.  We  lost  Miss  Moss  like 
that,  because  she  wanted  a  day  off  to  get  married.  Mr. 
Knowle  said  that  in  war  time  there  was  no  time  to  get  mar- 
ried, except  the  lunch  hour.  He  had  more  sense  of  the 
value  of  time  than  of  the  value  of  labor.  I  mean,  to  him 
everybody  was  a  "hand";  if  you  paid  somebody  tenpence 
an  hour  you  had  to  have  your  hour.  The  work  done  in  that 
hour  interested  him,  but  interested  him  less.  Sometimes  he 
had  the  mood  of  the  paternal  employer,  when  he  would  tell 
me  that  I  looked  wonky,  and  must  remember  that  mens 
sana  in  corpo  sanorum  (which  doesn't  sound  quite  right). 
Then  he  would  tell  me  that  he  liked  riding,  and  talk  of  the 


HERITORS  37 

magnates  he  had  met.  He  told  me  I  ought  to  read  Stevenson 
because  it  was  so  well  written.  He  forbade  me  to  read 
Elinor  Glyn,  and  said  there  was  nobody  like  Thackeray 
nowadays. 

What  interested  me  most,  when  at  last  I  discovered  it, 
was  the  inner  life  of  a  government  office.  I  did  not  at  once 
find  out  that  the  natural  enemy  of  Section  B  was  Section  A. 
It  was  Miss  Probus  who  explained  the  mechanism.  She  was 
one  of  the  clerks;  she  always  wore  a  dirty  lace  blouse  and  a 
blue  bow  round  her  neck.  She  was  about  forty,  and  looked 
as  if  she  had  never  been  less.  She  had  a  sniff  like  a  razor 
blade.  But  I  got  on  with  her  because  she  was  so  nasty 
that  I  felt  that  she  must  be  unhappy.  One  would  be,  with  a 
blue  bow  round  one's  neck.  Miss  Probus  knew  offices;  she'd 
spent  over  twenty  years  in  them,  and  once,  when  I  vaguely 
wondered  why  Mr.  Knowle  was  always  running  into  the 
Director-General's  office,  Miss  Probus  leaped  at  me  like  a 
lucid  but  disagreeable  cat. 

"How  can  you  be  so  silly?"  she  asked.  "All  these  sections 
think  the  other  sections  unnecessary.  Haven't  you  heard 
old  Knowle  say  that  it's  no  use  his  dealing  with  one  article 
of  diet,  like  dairy  produce,  if  he  can't  cope  with  the  farmers 
who  are  producing  fatted  stock  for  killing  instead  of  going  hi 
for  milk?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "but  I  don't  understand." 

Miss  Probus  absolutely  sibilated  her  next  sniff:  "Oh,  I've 
no  patience  with  you!  Don't  you  see  that  he  wants  to 
amalgamate  Section  B  with  Section  A?  The  director  of 
Section  A  could  be  got  rid  of  by  promotion  or  something; 
then  when  A  and  B  are  combined  under  B  he'll  have  such  a 
big  section  that  the  Director-General  will  see  for  himself 
that  it's  absurd  to  keep  on  a  little  section  like  C  for  potatoes 
and  roots.  Mr.  Knowle  '11  get  them  all  three.  Then  he'll 
start  going  to  Reading  and  developing  general  interests  in 
the  County  Control,  while  the  Director-General  wastes  his 
time  over  letters  and  work  and  all  that;  then  there  will  be 
a  rearrangement.  Mr.  Knowle  will  be  Director-General. 
Then  he'll  go  to  London  and  see  the  Minister,  and  so  on. 


38  URSULA   TRENT 

Unless,"  and  a  flush  of  hate  rose  in  the  suet  of  Miss  Probus's 
cheeks,  "unless  A  knifes  him  first,  or  C  knifes  them  both. 
That's  government,  Miss  Trent.  Knife  or  be  knifed,  or, 
more  politely,  for  the  public,  'Official  Co-operation.'" 


It  was  funny  to  leave  this  and  go  home  every  night,  with 
papa  preserving  an  atmosphere  of  official  secrecy  and  fending 
off  innocent  questions  as  to  the  milk  supply.  "But,  Ursula, 
no,  I  mustn't  ask  you  these  things.  Official  secrets,  and  all 
that."  When  I  described  Mr.  Knowle  to  mamma,  she  was 
quite  shocked.  "I'm  sure  we  all  have  our  crotchets,  Ursula, 
but  you  shouldn't  talk  about  him  like  that.  Not  in  war 
time."  I  was  very  bored.  Nothing  was  happening  except 
that  Doctor  Upnor  met  me  on  a  Saturday  afternoon  in 
Colby  Wood.  He  had  come  over  from  Woking,  and  we  had 
a  very  long  talk.  It  wasn't  exactly  a  lovers'  talk,  and  there- 
fore I  forget  most  of  it.  It  is  so  difficult  to  hang  on  to  details 
when  a  man  discourses  about  classical  education,  especially 
when  one  feels  that  he  hates  it  because  he  hasn't  had  it. 
I'm  being  unjust.  I  did  Latin  at  Eastbourne  and  don't 
remember  a  word  of  it,  while  Doctor  Upnor  had  read  his 
Plutarch  and  his  Tacitus  in  translations.  But  I  remember 
his  rage  against  Aristophanes.  "  Greek  drama ! "  he  growled, 
his  dark  eyes  savage.  "  It  makes  me  ill  to  think  of  the  stuff 
that's  being  poured  into  the  youth  of  this  country.  For- 
tunately, youth  is  a  sieve.  Greek !  another  superstition.  I 
was  reading  'The  Birds'  last  night.  Heavens!  what  silly 
rhetorical  stuff!  Can  you  believe  that  we  make  young  men 
read  this  rot  about  birds  setting  up  a  blockade  between 
man  and  the  gods!" 

"But  isn't  it  beautiful  language?"  I  protested.  (Some 
tradition  said  it  for  me.) 

"Oh,  beautiful  language!"  he  cried,  impatiently.  "Lan- 
guage means  something,  and  most  Greek  literature  has 
ceased  to  mean  anything  to  us  who  don't  believe  in  the  gods. 
There's  not  one  idea,  not  one  scrap  of  wit  in  that  play  of 


HERITORS  39 

Aristophanes';  yet  we've  embalmed  it  for  the  amazement  of 
the  future.  And  a  dear  friend  of  mine,  who  was  born  to  the 
stuff,  I  suppose,  urges  me  to  consider  the  topical  allusions 
to  corrupt  officials,  dandies,  and  fashionable  poets  of  the 
period.  Topical  allusions!  three  thousand  years  old!  Am 
I  going  mad,  or  is  mankind  like  this?  Will  some  Oxford  don 
in  the  thirtieth  century  dig  up  'Buzz,  Buzz,'  or  whatever  it 
is,  and  ask  wretched  youths  to  laugh  at  Mr.  Leslie  Henson's 
allusions  to  Mr.  Churchill's  hats?  Yet  that's  what  it  conies 
to,  except  that  we're  a  jolly  sight  more  witty  than  was 
Aristophanes,  and  that  a  page  of  Anatole  France  knocks  the 
whole  of  Juvenal  into  a  cocked  hat.  The  world  is  crazy.  Its 
education  is  in  the  hands  of  witch  doctors,  of  medicine  men. 
Oxford  dons  would  be  popular  in  Central  Africa.  They  shut 
themselves  up  in  a  dream  where  the  mind  of  Cincinnatus  is 
more  interesting  than  that  of  Lloyd  George,  and  where 
Leander  is  made  out  to  be  a  greater  athlete  than  Carpentier. 
Mad!  mad!" 

Perhaps  because  this  seemed  to  upset  him  so,  we  came  a 
little  nearer  to  being  lovers.  He  pleased  me,  this  rough  and 
aggressive  young  man.  I  wasn't  used  to  his  sort,  so  I  re- 
sponded when  he  suddenly  slipped  his  hand  through  my  arm 
and  whispered: 

"You  aren't  like  that . .  .  Ursula.  You  aren't  tied  up.  At 
least  you're  escaping,  aren't  you?" 

"I  don't  understand,"  I  said,  though  I  hah*  knew  what  he 
meant.  "  It's  so  difficult  to  understand  men.  They  use  long 
words  and  they  think  things  clearly.  I  can't  do  that;  I 
just  feel  that  a  thing  is  or  is  not,  but  I  don't  know  why." 

"Oh  yes,  you  do  understand,"  he  said,  as  he  caressed  my 
hand.  "You  understand  that  you're  in  a  world  petrified  by 
rules  and  excitements,  and  false  ideas,  a  world  which  puts 
love  on  license.  Like  regulated  vice  on  the  Continent  .  .  . 
except  that  the  license  isn't  transferable.  But  damn  edu- 
cation. You're  very  beautiful,  slim  like  one  of  those  birch 
trees."  We  stopped  for  a  moment.  He  gazed  at  me.  "I 
wish  I  dared  to  love  you,"  he  said,  "but  I'd  love  you  too 
much." 


40  URSULA   TRENT 

I  did  not  reply.  He  was  married.  His  shadowy,  unknown 
wife  made  me  feel  guilty.  Yet  I  thought  I  wanted  him  to 
love  me,  because  he  interested  me.  Nearly  all  men  say  such 
dull  things;  they  ask  you  if  you've  seen  So-and-so  in  the  play 
of  the  day,  or  whether  you  prefer  the  country  to  the  sea. 
Then  they  relate  their  own  experiences  in  the  country  and 
talk  about  themselves.  Doctor  Upnor  talked  about  things 
in  general,  the  only  things  I  really  like  men  to  talk  about, 
unless  it's  about  me.  I  think  that  by  stirring  my  intellect 
he  stirred  my  emotions,  for  I  did  not  resist  when  he  kissed 
me;  I  liked  it.  To  this  day  I  don't  quite  know  what  pleasure 
I  have  found  in  so  many  caresses.  The  temporary  touch  of 
lips?  The  strange  softening  that  goes  through  one  then,  and 
for  a  while  clings  to  one's  being,  like  scent  that  time  slowly 
dispels?  Or  the  suggestion  in  the  kiss  of  the  sensual  world 
it  fringes,  which  one  may  not  enter,  yet  which  one  gladly 
borders?  Or  the  tribute  of  the  man's  desire?  a  desire  so  cheap 
and  continually  addressed  to  so  many  other  lips?  Or  just 
the  slavery  to  one's  own  unconscious  impulse,  which  is  eased 
by  a  kiss  because  in  it  one  gives  a  little?  Or  just  curiosity? 
One  wonders  what  the  contact  with  that  clipped  mustache, 
that  shaven  lip,  that  heavy  beard,  can  actually  be  like. 
Will  it  carry  a  new  scent?  Gasper  or  Egyptian?  Or  is  it 
triumph?  Is  it  the  secret  desire  to  see  those  dark  eyes,  blue 
eyes,  cloud  with  pleasure,  shine  with  greed,  or  slowly,  rap- 
turously half  close?  Satisfaction  or  sense  of  power?  Con- 
quest or  conqueror? 

I  don't  know.  I  suppose  men  and  women  take  these  things 
differently,  but  men's  caresses  are  often  unsatisfactory;  they 
always  seem  to  want  to  press  them  to  a  conclusion,  from 
which  we  always  shrink.  We  are  soothed  by  what  stimu- 
lates them.  We  always  say  with  Faust  to  the  fleeting  mo- 
ment, "Tarry  yet,  thou  art  so  beautiful,"  while  men  always 
want  the  next  moment,  the  last  moment,  want  it  at  once.  So 
we  flee  because  man  clothes  our  dream  of  mist  in  the  leaden 
garment  of  reality.  We  flee?  Do  we  flee?  Do  we  not  flee  as 
a  nymph  from  a  satyr,  laughing,  and  looking  over  our  shoul- 
der as  we  run,  so  that  we  may  not  outstrip  him  too  much? 


HERITORS  41 


in 

There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  linen  coat  and  skirt  that  fits 
properly.  I  was  having  a  lot  of  trouble  just  then  with  a 
butcher-blue  suit  faced  with  white  pique.  The  dressmaker 
at  Reading  had  begun  by  making  the  pique  facings  too 
short,  so  that  the  lapels  were  dragged  into  strange  undula- 
tions. This  was  remedied,  but  the  pique,  having  been  left 
untouched,  developed  along  its  length  a  series  of  puckers. 
Furiously,  I  took  it  away  and  wore  it,  and,  having  unknow- 
ingly sat  on  a  damp  seat  in  the  garden,  the  coat  grew  covered 
with  zigzag  wrinkles.  Finally  the  skirt  began  to  sag  and 
ended  an  inch  longer  at  the  back  than  at  the  front.  I  tried 
to  tell  papa  why  I  was  so  angry,  but  he  only  laughed  and 
said  that  war  workers  must  not  be  coquettish.  Men  call  us 
mysterious,  but  their  lack  of  interest  in  certain  things 
amazes  me. 

For  instance,  there  was  the  fuss  about  my  trousers.  A 
fancy-dress  dance  had  been  arranged  at  Alton  to  collect 
funds  for  the  Red  Cross.  It  was  really  very  nice,  with  a 
jazz  band  from  St.  Dunstan's.  The  county  really  enjoyed 
itself — at  least,  the  soldier  portion,  because  it  was  able  to 
wear  masks  and,  thus  sheltered,  to  talk  to  pretty  trades- 
men's daughters  whom  so  far  they  had  gazed  at  only  covertly. 
Sir  Fitzwater  Ingham  was  splendid  as  Don  Quixote.  Verena 
came  as  Columbine;  Claribel  was  a  gypsy,  which  she  thought 
an  original  note.  The  town  made  wonderful  things  out  of 
curtains,  chair  covers,  gilt  cardboard,  and  called  itself  Harle- 
quins, Italian  brigands,  pierrettes.  I  wanted  to  come  as  a 
harem  favorite,  in  a  loose,  sleeveless  coat  of  red  velvet,  gold- 
braided  at  the  edges,  over  a  white  crepe-de-Chine  shirt,  with 
a  green  sash,  lots  of  sequins,  and  pink  trousers.  When  the 
clothes  arrived  mamma  merely  said,  "Ursula,  you  aren't 
going  to  wear  that!" 

"Why  not?" 

"But,  my  dear  . . .  really  . . .  trousers^ 


42  URSULA   TRENT 

"There's  nothing  indecent  in  trousers,  is  there?  They 
clothe  one,  in  fact,  considerably." 

Mamma  evaded  me.  She  always  did.  "Oh  no,  no!  It 
really  wouldn't  do.  People  wouldn't  like  it." 

We  had  a  long,  rambling  discussion,  during  which  I  first 
tried  to  find  out  why  people  would  mind.  I  at  last  managed 
to  discover  that  mamma  didn't  mind  my  trousers,  and  that 
she  was  sure  that  Lady  Edderton  didn't  mind  my  trousers. 
Probably  nobody  did  separately,  but  put  together  they 
would.  Then  I  tried  to  tear  out  of  mamma  the  reason  for 
which  she  would  mind  their  minding.  But  that  was  im- 
possible; mamma  wasn't  used  to  having  things  torn  from 
her.  Finally  I  went  as  a  ballet  dancer,  with  bare  arms,  very 
little  front,  hardly  more  back,  and  showing  four  inches  of 
leg  above  the  knee.  Everybody  was  delighted,  and  an  idiotic 
young  man  at  arms  dragged  me  down  with  him  and  put 
his  spurs  through  my  skirt,  which  cost  four  pounds,  after  an 
awful  haggle  for  six  guineas.  As  I  had  spent  all  my  dress 
allowance,  papa  paid,  remarking  that  it  was  worth  four 
pounds  to  keep  me  out  of  trousers. 

It  was  these  small  irritations,  I  suppose,  that  made  me 
more  critical  of  my  surroundings.  I  don't  know  how  I  be- 
came critical.  Papa  wasn't,  mamma  wasn't;  Isabel  was  too 
busy  enjoying  herself.  Being  married,  I  suppose,  they  didn't 
get  shaken  by  the  war,  didn't  get  into  touch  with  people 
they  hadn't  met  before,  like  Mr.  Knowle  and  Miss  Probus. 
And  they  never  met  people  like  Doctor  Upnor;  the  clever 
ones  in  their  set  had  the  common  decency  to  keep  their 
ideas  dark.  But  I  had  to  criticize,  and  really  the  things  that 
were  happening  in  the  country  in  1918  were  peculiar.  The 
profiteers  were  arriving.  The  little  ones  were  buying  laborers' 
cottages,  which  they  painted,  filled  with  imitation  old  furni- 
ture, or  maple  suites;  the  larger  ones  were  buying  big  villas, 
which  the  ruined  stockbrokers  were  selling.  The  richest, 
who'd  been  in  the  country  a  little  longer,  such  as  the  Mossats, 
the  Sedberghs,  the  Wardles,  were  occupying  what  had  been 
the  dower  houses,  or  even  the  seats  of  people  like  Lady 
Denshaw  or  Colonel  Risby.  They  were  fitting  themselves 


HERITORS  43 

into  the  county,  rather  in  the  way,  I  suspect,  that  a  con- 
queror arrives  in  the  East.  When  the  massacre  is  over  he 
begins  to  fling  handfuls  of  gold  to  the  populace. 

IV 

Extraordinary  people!  What  do  they  do  it  for?  People 
like  Sir  Isaac  Mossat,  who'd  just  got  his  knighthood.  It 
seemed  so  extraordinary  to  see  this  short,  fat,  swarthy  man, 
of  whom  Lady  Denshaw  said  that  he  was  as  black  as  a  new 
knight,  in  the  inconvenient,  tumble-down  house  of  old  Lady 
Ellwood,  who  couldn't  keep  it  up,  so  was  retiring  to  Tun- 
bridge  Wells.  He  wasn't  a  bad  man.  Really,  he  was  a  nice 
man,  keeping- up  convalescent  homes  for  his  staff  (he  was  a 
cinema  proprietor),  paying  for  the  education  of  all  sorts  of 
boys  and  girls  belonging  to  his  doorkeepers  and  clerks, 
shedding  a  rain  of  flowers,  woolen  things,  and  coal  on  the 
old  cottagers  attached  to  Ellwood  Place.  But  he  was — how 
shall  I  put  it — in  a  sort  of  toy  shop.  I  stayed  there  once  for 
two  or  three  days,  at  the  invitation  of  his  daughter  Judith, 
and  I  talked  to  him.  It  seemed  queer  that  a  new-rich  should 
be  so  keen  on  the  Church,  the  King,  the  classes,  keen  on  all 
the  established  ideas,  the  value  of  sport,  the  sanctity  of  mar- 
riage, the  improving  quality  of  books  of  travel  and  memoirs. 
I  don't  know  how  he  could  have  got  on  if  he  tried  to  be  so 
like  everybody  else.  Perhaps  he  was  different  inside.  Per- 
haps it  was  this  toy-shop  feeling,  this  immense  desire  of  his 
for  first  editions,  numerous  telephones,  super-bathrooms, 
collected  editions,  motor  cars,  big  gardens.  He  made  Ell- 
wood Place  shocking  .  .  .  like  an  old  lady  in  pink.  Every 
room  had  Bradshaw,  A.B.C.,  Clerical  Directory,  Racing 
Calendar,  and  lots  more,  bound  in  vellum,  with  the  Mossat 
arms  embossed  in  gold.  He  put  a  Louis  XV  brass  door- 
handle on  the  priceless  Tudor  oak  hall  door.  A  telephone 
stood  in  the  inglenook.  He  was  very  happy.  He  talked  to 
me  about  colonial  push,  and  the  premium  there'd  be  on  seats 
to  see  Haldane  hanged.  Also,  he  made  me  understand  a 

little  what  the  cinema  meant: 
4 


44  URSULA   TRENT 

"You  know,  Miss  Trent,  you've  got  to  fetch  the  people 
somehow.  Got  to  find  out  the  things  they'd  like  to  have 
different  in  their  lives.  Well,  they  can't  get  'em,  but  I  can 
show  'em  to  'em  on  the  film  for  fourpence.  Ah1  those  people 
driving  a  quill  at  a  desk,  or  washing  the  linen,  they  want  a 
bit  of  color.  Bit  of  excitement,  you  know.  They  want  to 
get  away  from  life,  which  ain't  surprising,  considering.  Oh, 
I  know  you're  one  of  those  who  look  down  on  the  film.  You 
don't  know  what  it's  going  to  do.  Why,  we've  only  started ! 
We  can  do  things  on  the  film  that  the  stage  can't  even  think 
of.  Can  Drury  Lane  show  you  a  motor  car  falling  over  a 
precipice?  No.  Can  Drury  Lane  bring  on  two  thousand 
people  at  a  time?  No.  Can  Drury  Lane  pay  its  leading  lady 
a  hundred  thousand  pounds  a  year,  like  Mary  Pickford? 
No.  Ah!  they  make  me  tired,  the  people  who  talk  about 
the  new  drama.  The  film's  the  new  drama.  It's  ordinary 
life,  the  real  thing." 

There  was  something  in  it;  and  I  had  to  laugh  when  he 
taught  me  to  register  emotions.  He  was  ashamed  of  every- 
thing in  his  origins,  but  was  proud  of  his  career.  He  loved 
the  cinema,  and  he  convulsed  the  table  at  dinner,  the  second 
night,  by  telling  me  loudly  to  register  delight  over  a  mush- 
room savory.  Everybody  took  it  up.  Judith  registered  the 
gambler's  greed  at  bridge,  while  Sam  Mossat  gave  me  a  lot 
of  trouble  by  registering  the  love  emotion,  not  only  publicly, 
but  privately.  The  only  person  who  didn't  like  it  was  an 
armyish  stockbroker  who  wore  tweeds  rougher  than  the 
coat  of  a  sheep  dog,  and  had  to  tuck  up  his  mustache  to  eat 
soup. 

Extraordinary  people.  Extraordinary  places.  Not  only 
the  Mossats,  but  the  others,  the  Sedberghs  and  such.  I 
know  now  that  they  were  not  peculiar  to  my  county,  and 
that  this  sort  is  dotted  all  over  the  country  from  John 
o'  Groat's  to  Land's  End.  Much  the  same.  The  surroundings 
are  different.  Sometimes,  when  Mr.  Profit  is  a  laird,  rather 
self  -conscious  about  his  pink  knees,  he  learns  broad  Scotch. 
Otherwise  he  picks  up  from  his  gardener  some  Somerset, 
which  is  later  taken  for  Lancashire.  Yet  always  the  same 


HERITORS  45 

world,  always  the  lodge,  and  the  lodgekeeper,  whose  children 
soon  find  out  that  the  new  gentry  like  bobbing;  always  the 
same  spreading  compromise  between  a  polished  meadow  and 
a  rough  lawn,  round  an  oak  tree,  or  a  chestnut  tree,  bordering 
a  private  golf  links.  Always  the  road  that  is  called  the  drive, 
yet  is  a  mile  long,  through  the  interminable  park  which  shuts 
off  the  great  house. 

Then  the  great  house,  often  Georgian,  sometimes  Eliza- 
bethan or  Tudor,  even  twentieth  century,  slightly  mas- 
querading, but  essentially  the  same:  gravel  before  the  porch; 
in  the  hall  some  footmen  in  quiet  livery,  a  glimpse  of  the 
butler  in  his  day  clothes;  glass  doors;  the  hall  with  a  stone 
or  parquet  flooring,  covered  with  thick  red  and  green  rugs. 
Generally  dogs  before  the  fireplace,  Mrs.  Profit's,  I  mean 
Lady  Profit's  peke,  or  an  outside  sheep  dog.  Or,  more  subtly, 
an  Irish  terrier,  to  show  that  this  is  the  country  and  the 
rough  life.  In  the  outer  hall,  as  many  hats  and  caps  as  would 
fit  out  a  hydra;  other  evidences  of  the  country:  dog  whips, 
riding  crops,  leggings,  snow-boots.  Why  not  stilts?  Pro- 
fusion begins  at  the  gate.  Everything  is  provided;  there  is 
too  much  of  it.  When  I  think  of  the  broken-down  furniture 
in  my  old  nursery  at  Giber  Court,  of  the  filthy  carpet  in 
papa's  study,  which  nobody  has  dared  to  raise  since  grand- 
papa died! 

Then  the  dining  room,  generally  too  long,  sometimes  pro- 
vided with  family  portraits  by  the  previous  occupants,  or 
with  fresh  ones  by  the  Royal  Academy;  generally  Mr. 
Profit  has  fought  a  few  battles  at  Christie's,  bought  a  Rae- 
burn,  a  Romney,  or  a  Gainsborough.  The  little  gold  labels 
show  this;  unfortunately  the  price  labels  have  had  to  be 
taken  off.  Then  the  drawing-room,  always  a  little  too  high 
in  a  twentieth-century  ancestral  home,  with  a  floor  always 
too  slippery,  filled  with  too  much  furniture,  because  Mr. 
Profit  has  to  buy  something;  loaded  with  too  much  Sevres, 
too  much  Crown  Derby,  too  much  Queen  Anne  silver.  We 
have  some  of  that  at  Giber  Court,  because  the  Trents  have 
for  centuries  been  giving  and  receiving  wedding,  birthday, 
and  Christmas  presents,  but  at  home  the  silver  doesn't 


46  URSULA   TRENT 

match.  I  suppose  some  time  we  had  our  apostle  spoons  in 
sets,  but  we've  lost  some,  had  some  stolen,  and  been  too 
slack  to  match  them. 

Not  so  in  the  house  of  Mr.  Profit.  They've  bought  Bond 
Street  and  the  Boulevard  des  Italiens,  and  dumped  it  (com- 
plete with  velvet  cases)  in  the  home  counties.  Their  ciga- 
rettes! Oh  dear!  At  Basingalton  I  carried  them  about  in  a 
yellow  packet .  .  .  but  Mr.  Sedbergh  beamed  at  me  when  the 
footman  staggered  toward  me  with  a  cabinet  containing,  I 
think,  thirty  kinds  of  cigarettes,  an  international  congress  of 
cigarettes,  tipped  in  cork,  gold,  silver,  rose  leaf  ...  I  don't 
know. 

And  the  bedrooms !  My  bell  at  Giber  Court  was  generally 
broken.  At  the  Sedberghs'  one  must  move  carefully  lest 
one  press  a  silver  button  by  mistake.  One  wabbles  on  the 
velvety  sea  of  then*  carpets;  at  least  I  do,  who  am  used  to  a 
threadbare  rug  on  boards  that  want  staining.  I  thought  I 
should  never  get  out  of  bed  in  the  morning,  because  the  bed 
was  curtained;  when  I  tried  to  pull,  I  found  there  were  four 
thicknesses  of  thin  curtain,  exquisitely  graduating  light.  I 
got  the  four  strings  tied  up  with  two  bell  ropes.  I  felt  that 
if  I  touched  anything  people  would  rush  in  with  morning 
tea  and  a  gold  bath.  Must  be  a  job  living  like  that.  Keeping 
it  up,  you  know.  The  men  must  worry  a  lot,  wearing  the 
right  Harris  or  Donegal  tweeds  that  one  sees  in  the  shop 
windows  in  Bond  Street.  And  getting  knitted  ties  that 
really  feel  like  nutmeg  graters.  And  remembering  never  to 
button  the  belt  of  one's  Norfolk.  And  seeming  rough  and 
awkward,  suggesting  too  much  shoulder  and  knee,  because 
one's  in  the  country  and  taking  it  easy. 

But  I  did  like  the  meals.  At  the  Mossats'  it  was  like  living 
at  Claridge's,  for  they'd  given  Claridge's  chef  a  thousand 
pounds  to  come  to  them.  It  rather  puzzled  me  to  make  up 
my  mind  when  simultaneously  offered  champagne,  claret, 
burgundy,  whisky,  hock,  cider,  lemonade,  and  barley 
water  .  .  .  but  I  got  used  to  it.  As  one  might  get  used  to 
living  at  Whiteley's.  Everything  was  there.  If,  by  some 
extraordinary  catastrophe,  anything  had  been  forgotten, 


HERITORS  47 

there  was  the  telephone  to  the  station,  the  private  line  to  the 
office  in  London,  the  other  private  line  to  the  town  house  in 
the  London  square;  at  the  end  of  those  wires,  more  butlers, 
more  secretaries,  more  purchasing  agencies,  more  people  to 
fetch,  to  carry,  to  answer  questions,  to  think  out  wishes  if 
one  was  tired. 

It  made  their  families  a  little  listless;  they  hadn't  a  chance 
to  want;  they  had  earned  disappointment  by  shedding 
desire;  by  placing  themselves  beyond  need,  they  ceased  to 
need.  That  is  why  they  worked  so  hard.  Why,  they  enjoyed 
fetching  and  carrying  their  friends  to  the  station,  and  using 
their  chauffeur  a  good  deal  on  Sunday.  They  liked  that 
activity  better  than  their  large  houses  and  their  libraries, 
filled  with  unread,  uncut,  histories.  (No  wonder.)  They 
were  human. 

"I  like  dogs,"  said  Mr.  Sedbergh,  "but  give  me  a  bit  of 
blood." 

How  funny  he  looked  upon  his  horse!  He  wasn't  exactly 
a  centaur.  He  took  me  round  the  home  farm. 

"Nice  little  place,"  said  Mr.  Sedbergh,  casually,  jerking 
at  his  collar,  which  always  caught  his  waistcoat.  "These 
pigs  .  . .  good  pigs  .  .  .  spotted  white.  I've  rather  a  fancy  for 
spotted  white.  Better  pig  any  day  than  middle  white." 

Indeed,  they  were  lovely  pigs;  they  were  currycombed,  I 
suspect,  or  dry  cleaned.  They  looked  so  well  off  among  the 
tile  and  enamel;  all  the  animals  were  tame,  as  if  people 
were  always  giving  them  biscuits  and  things.  The  cows 
were  like  the  servants,  waiting  to  be  tipped. 

The  conversation  was  rather  like  our  own,  about  the 
county,  and  the  rest  of  the  world,  who's  married  who,  or 
will;  is  Lady  Dorothy  the  third  daughter?  will  Mr.  Hyphen- 
ated be  sent  to  Canada  because  he  drove  his  car  through  the 
tollgate?  and  how  shabby  Colonel  Risby  looks  in  his  scarlets! 
and  is  the  ground  too  hard,  or  too  soft?  and  is  there  a  chance 
of  getting  a  badger  in  the  spinney?  and  will  Sir  John  be  able 
to  keep  up  The  Towers,  now  that  he's  been  let  in  over 
Canpacs? 

But  we  talked  of  London,  too,  the  new  play,  the  opera,  the 


48  URSULA   TRENT 

ballet,  that  traitor  Smillie,  the  Riviera,  and  Rome.  I  believe 
the  good  Mr.  Profits  go  to  Rome  when  they  die. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Wardle,  "we  always  go  abroad  every 
year.  It  opens  the  mind,  you  know." 

All  the  Wardles  go  abroad,  not  only  to  Deauville,  Rome, 
and  St.  Moritz,  but  "off  the  beaten  track,"  to  Russia, 
Hungary,  the  East,  and  the  colonies. 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Wardle,  "we  were  quite  comfortable  at 
the  Grand  at  Bucharest,  though  for  my  part  I  prefer  the 
Royal  at  Sydney." 

I  have  a  vision  of  the  Wardles  leaving  the  Ritz  in  Paris 
for  the  Ritz  in  Constantinople,  eating  the  same  dinner, 
wearing  the  same  clothes,  controlling  the  same  servants, 
who  speak  the  same  international  language,  buying  French 
clothes  in  Petrograd,  Viennese  shoes  in  Tangiers,  and  local 
curios  made  in  Germany.  Or  like  the  laird  in  Trilby,  pointing 
to  a  fresco  that  has  stood  for  five  centuries  in  a  Spanish 
palace,  and  saying,  "Coopy!  coopy  le  muir!"  Off  goes  the 
fresco  to  Grosvenor  Square,  to  gaze  across  the  room  into 
the  eyes  of  Phyllis  Dare,  silver-framed.  The  boys  go  to 
Eton,  the  girls  ride.  Mr.  Profit  eats  less  and  less,  except 
cachets  expensively  prescribed,  and  hides  himself  to  smoke 
a  cigar  where  Mrs.  Profit  won't  find  out.  Experience?  Or 
experiences? 


I'm  a  country  girl,  born  on  the  land,  a  Trent.  So  I  feel 
that  these  people  have  settled  upon  the  counties  like  vul- 
tures on  a  battlefield.  They've  got  their  claws  into  the  flesh 
of  the  poor  old  Trents,  that  have  been  lying  about,  heaving. 
Oh,  I've  no  sympathy  with  the  Trents!  To  register  or  to 
heave,  does  it  matter?  Really,  I  can't  bear  these  people;  I 
hate  them  as  I  do  my  own.  They  have  all  the  vices  of  the 
townsman  and  have  not  yet  the  virtues  of  the  countryman. 
(Nor  his  vices.)  They  have  all  the  power,  yet  not  the  re- 
sponsibility. Though,  bless  him!  Mr.  Profit  tries.  He  re- 
alizes that  land  makes  responsibility.  Within  a  month  of 


HERITORS  49 

his  arrival  he  tries  to  be  a  man  of  Kent,  or  a  Shropshire  lad. 
He  gets  quite  patriotic  about  it.  Has  himself  made  D.L. 
and  J.P.,  subscribes  to  the  hunt,  the  hospital,  and  the 
church;  he'd  like  to  back  the  chapel,  too,  if  he  dared,  just  to 
be  safe.  He  sits  upon  the  bench,  keeps  up  the  level  of  local 
morality,  and  stands  the  church  a  new  bell.  Mrs.  Profit 
visits  all  the  cottages  with  armfuls  of  orchids,  and  makes 
it  awfully  hard  for  the  vicar's  wife,  who  comes  along  with 
bunches  of  larkspur.  One  of  them,  I  know,  has  learned 
Welsh. 

At  the  same  time  Mr.  Profit  patronizes  the  county  because 
it  is  hard  up,  but  he  is  not  quite  sure  that  it's  not  the  thing 
to  be  hard  up.  It  is  annoying  to  feel  that  he  can  afford 
coronas  and  .  .  .  the  squire  smokes  a  cracked  pipe.  The 
county  makes  him  uncomfortable;  it's  so  casual,  so  comfor- 
table in  its  slatternly  way,  so  damnably  there.  When  Mr. 
Profit  appears  at  the  meet,  in  his  new  scarlets,  on  his  ex- 
pensive hunter,  he  is  not  quite  sure  whether  he  is  really 
"coming  it"  over  the  squire  on  that  raw,  red  brute  of  his 
that  doesn't  look  as  if  it  got  enough  oats;  the  squire  doesn't 
seem  to  know  that  his  saddle's  frayed  at  the  edges.  The 
damnable  fellow  doesn't  seem  impressed  by  the  shadow  of 
Strathfieldsaye,  doesn't  seem  to  care  a  damn  if  the  duke  is 
coming  or  not.  Mr.  Profit  tries  to  convey  the  same  impres- 
sion and,  after  a  while,  subsides,  feeling  shrill  because  they 
stare  him  in  the  eye  with  an  air  of  interest.  At  last,  in 
despair,  he  increases  his  subscription  to  the  hunt;  politely, 
it  takes  his  money.  His  neighbors  eat  his  dinners  and  don't 
seem  to  mind  him.  He  gathers  something  vague:  they're 
sticking  him,  all  right.  But  they  talk  slang  to  him;  they 
"feel  rotten";  or  are  "bored  stiff."  This,  as  he  puts  it, 
makes  him  feel  "cruelly  at  a  disadvantage." 

At  last  Mr.  Profit  lives  it  down,  and  leaves  his  g's  at  home 
when  he  comes  down  for  the  week-end;  he  works  hard  at 
being  bluff  and  hearty.  He  finds  out  the  names  of  plants  in 
hedges,  and  some  one  tells  him  whether  mangolds  are  con- 
sumed by  cattle,  or  pheasants,  or  both.  What  eventually 
saves  him  is  that  he  thinks  like  the  county:  that  the  lower 


50  URSULA   TRENT 

class  should  remain  below,  that  they  are  improvident, 
thriftless,  drunken;  that  colliers  make  a  hundred  a  week; 
that  Socialism  is  sharing  out;  that  tariff  reform  will  save 
the  country;  that  emigration  should  be  discouraged  because 
it  is  costing  us  our  best;  that  education  is  bunkum,  and  that 
it  is  a  mistake  to  teach  girls  anything  but  domestic  service; 
that  it  is  a  shame  workinggirls  should  buy  sham  pearl 
necklaces;  that  religion  had  better  be  let  alone,  trade-unions 
done  away  with;  briefly,  the  lower  classes  are  scum  and 
must  be  kept  in  their  place. 

As  soon  as  Mr.  Profit  achieves  this  community  of  ideas  he 
discovers  that  the  squire  is  on  excellent  terms  with  all  sorts 
of  laborers  and  shepherds,  that  he  converses  with  them  in 
the  fields  as  if  he  liked  them;  then  he  goes  crazy  with  trying 
to  understand. 

VI 

But  I  am  tired  of  poor  Mr.  Profit,  though  his  irruption 
into  Hampshire  was  amusing.  I  forsook  him.  A  little 
before  the  armistice,  as  I  left  the  Food  Control  to  walk  to 
the  station,  a  man  stopped  me  and  begged.  I  was  going  to 
pass  on,  because  it  was  raining,  and  one  can  never  find  one's 
money  when  it's  wet.  Then  I  saw  that  he  wore  a  silver 
badge.  This  horrified  me. 

"No,  miss,  I've  got  no  pension,"  he  said.  "I  was  dis- 
charged long  ago  for  consumption;  they  said  I'd  got  it 
before." 

"Had  you?" 

"Not  that  I  know  of,  miss.  I  got  a  job  in  the  country 
first,  easy  enough.  But  such  lots  of  men  have  been  coming 
back.  Aiid  I  can't  do  enough  work.  I  was  a  clerk  before  the 
war.  I  can't  get  a  job  in  an  office  because  I've  got  to  have 
the  window  open.  It  would  have  to  be  a  superior  job  with 
a  room  to  myself."  He  laughed.  "Not  much  chance  of 
that,  miss." 

I  thought  for  a  moment,  took  his  address.  He  was  a 
shorthand  typist  and  had  other  qualifications.  Next  day  I 


HERITORS  51 

went  to  Mr.  Knowle:  "I'm  going  to  resign,  Mr.  Knowle,"  I 
said,  "and  I  want  you  to  take  in  my  stead  a  disabled  soldier 
with  consumption.  He  can  have  my  small  room  and  have 
the  window  open." 

"What's  this?  What's  this?"  said  Mr.  Knowle,  agitated, 
and  practicing  profound  excavations  under  his  finger  nails. 
I  explained. 

"But,  my  dear  young  lady,  I  can't  have  you  telling  your 
director  what  to  do,  look.  Resign  if  you  like.  The  war's 
over." 

"But  food  control  will  go  on  for  a  long  time,"  I  said. 

"Oh!  How  do  you  know?  Still,  that's  no  business  of 
yours.  You  wouldn't  like  to  be  dismissed  for  impertinence, 
would  you?" 

"Dismiss  me  if  you  like,  but  you  must  take  on  this  man." 

"Must?" 

"Yes,  or  refuse  to  give  an  open  post  to  a  qualified,  disabled 
soldier." 

After  a  long  argument,  Mr.  Knowle  understood  that  I 
would  report  him  to  "John  Bull"  if  he  refused;  fuming, 
defying  me,  and  at  last  drawing  blood  from  his  finger  nails, 
Mr.  Knowle  promised  to  see  the  man.  The  soldier  got  the 
job  and  I  went  home.  There  was  an  awful  scene  when  it 
came  out.  Papa  laughed;  mamma,  for  several  weeks,  asked 
me  every  day  how  I  could  have  done  anything  so  unfeminine. 


Chapter  V 
The  Obelisk 


I  HAD  not  taken  it  seriously  at  first.  It  had  come  to  me 
in  fragments  of  dinner- table  conversation.  I  knew  that 
papa  was  on  the  committee  of  the  war  memorial  (of  course 
he  would  be),  and  I  just  took  it  to  be  one  of  the  local  fusses 
(you  see,  I  was  changing  already)  when  papa  suggested  a 
certain  disunion  in  the  committee,  a  struggle  between  the 
partisans  of  the  obelisk  and  those  of  the  Ionic  cross.  Then 
I  forgot  all  about  it.  I  had  Mr.  Knowle  to  think  of.  When 
mamma  told  me  that  they  were  so  worried,  that  Mr.  Bowden 
was  much  too  old  and  in  the  hands  of  the  wardens,  and 
really  ought  to  retire  and  give  up  the  living  to  a  younger 
man;  when  she  went  on  to  say  that  Miss  Nawton  was 
making  a  ridiculous  fuss  about  the  war  memorial — I  just  said: 
"Oh,  is  that  so,  mamma?  Do  you  think  my  heather-mixture 
tweed  will  do  this  winter?  or  should  I  get  a  new  one?"  This 
excited  mamma,  and  the  conversation  changed. 

But  one  morning,  as  we  came  out  of  church,  our  group 
was  accosted  by  Miss  Nawton.  We  did  not  like  her  much, 
for  she  was  a  little  old  maid  of  about  fifty,  with  an  angular 
manner;  above  all,  I  resented  her  smell,  a  peculiar  bitter- 
sweet, oil-of-clovey  sort  of  smell,  that  is  often  exhaled  by 
old  maids,  I  don't  know  why.  As  if  they  had  been  laid  up 
in  a  rather  sour  kind  of  lavender.  An  almondy  smell.  But 
never  mind.  Yet  we  had  to  be  civil  to  her  because  the  Naw- 
tons  had  been  in  the  county  as  long  as  we  had;  also  there 
was  nothing  against  her  except  that  she  was  the  local  ration- 
alist. She  was  the  sort  of  old  maid  that  goes  in  for  common 
sense  and  plain  speaking.  Briefly,  she  was  disagreeable. 


THE  OBELISK  53 

Having  picked  me  out,  she  began  to  converse  about  the 
weather,  the  evil  results  of  the  government's  pasture-break- 
ing policy;  I  thought  that  I  was  merely  going  to  be  bored, 
when  I  discovered  that  Miss  Nawton  was  gradually  walking 
more  slowly;  we  were  lagging.  Already  ten  yards  separated 
us  from  my  father  and  mother.  Then  Miss  Nawton  mur- 
mured: "Miss  Trent,  I  wonder  whether  you'd  come  and 
have  tea  with  me  one  afternoon?  There's  lots  of  things  I'd 
like  to  talk  to  you  about." 

"Oh,"  I  said,  awkwardly,  "I'd  be  very  pleased." 

"What  about  Wednesday?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  may  be  going  away  .  .  ." 

"Doesn't  matter,"  said  Miss  Nawton.  "After  all,  it's 
very  simple.  It's  this  war-memorial  business.  There's  a 
lot  of  nonsense  talked  in  this  parish.  You  wouldn't  believe 
it,  but  there's  opposition  to  the  obelisk,  though,  obviously, 
that's  the  right  memorial.  Any  fool  could  see  it.  You  can, 
can't  you?" 

I  said  nothing.  It  would  be  awkward  for  me  if  I  said  I 
couldn't  see  it. 

"  We  can't  agree  about  it.  Mr.  Bowden  is  perfectly  useless. 
Of  course,  he's  a  clergyman,  and  I  try  to  make  allowances. 
But  the  poor  old  man  is  noxious  as  well  as  useless.  He  is 
absolutely  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Felstead.  As  the  people's 
warden,  Mr.  Felstead  'd  do  much  better  to  look  after  the 
church  roof  and  the  tithes,  and  let  religion  alone.  What's 
a  churchwarden  got  to  do  with  religion,  I'd  like  to  know? 
Anyhow,  Mr.  Felstead  is  egging  on  Mr.  Bowden  to  have 
an  Ionic  cross.  Perfectly  ridiculous!  And  your  father's 
just  as  bad." 

I  laughed.    "Does  papa  want  an  Ionic  cross?"  I  asked. 

"He  does.  And  he  wants  the  obelisk  too,  in  turns.  Per- 
fectly ridiculous! " 

"And  what  do  you  want,  Miss  Nawton?" 

"  Oh  dear !"  she  said,  impatiently.  "  You  ought  to  know  that 
I  hate  all  these  emblems  of  superstition.  Of  course  I  want 
an  obelisk."  She  paused,  and  I  gathered  that  a  delicate  bit 
of  canvassing  would  now  take  place.  I  was  right,  for  Miss 


54  URSULA   TRENT 

Nawton  said,  "I  want  you  to  talk  to  your  father  and  tell 
him  not  to  be  absurd." 

"Oh,  I  say!  I  couldn't  say  that  to  papa." 

"You  can  talk  him  round.  Situation's  perfectly  intoler- 
able. We've  got  a  solid  block  of  people  who  don't  know 
what  they're  talking  about,  who  are  determined  on  a  Chris- 
tian symbol.  And  we  can't  get  a  decision  because  your 
father  won't  make  up  his  mind.  Christian  symbol!"  she 
repeated,  bitterly.  "I  suggested  catacombs."  Miss  Nawton 
went  on  to  denounce  Mr.  Bowden,  pickled  in  antiquated 
Anglicanism;  the  people's  warden,  a  secret  agnostic,  but 
determined  to  thwart  her;  and  finally  made  me  promise  to 
speak  to  my  father.  She  ended  by  leaving  us  at  the  cross- 
roads, vaguely  remarking  to  poor  papa:  "Say  what  you 
like,  Sir  William,  you  won't  get  anybody  about  here  to  carve 
an  Ionic  cross  right.  You'll  have  to  have  it  done  outside 
the  county,  and  that's  that." 

"Trying  woman,"  said  papa,  after  she  left  us.  "She's 
always  in  earnest." 

"Aren't  you,  papa  .  .  .  about  the  obelisk?"  I  asked. 

"Ursula,  I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more  about  the  obelisk. 
I'm  sick  of  the  damned  obelisk." 

"But  what  are  you?    Ionian  or  obeliskian?" 

"Oh,  don't  be  absurd.  We're  all  for  the  cross,  only  we 
don't  want  to  vote  down  Miss  Nawton.  We  feel  that  in  a 
matter  like  this  " — he  grew  rhetorical — "we  ought  to  strive 
for  a  unanimous  sense  of  ...  oh,  a  unanimous  sense.  And 
if  the  church  feels  that  an  Ionic  cross  is  right,  well,  there 
you  are." 

"I  rather  fancy  the  obelisk,  daddy,"  I  replied.  (I  didn't 
care,  but  papa  was  so  funny.  He  always  got  hot  and  irri- 
tated after  Miss  Nawton.) 

"Indeed!"  said  papa,  obstinately,  as  if  that  settled  it. 
"You've  got  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Are  you  on  the  com- 
mittee by  any  chance?" 

I  said  nothing  more  that  morning,  but  I  found  that  this 
had  dragged  me  into  the  cross  versus  obelisk  affair.  Mr. 
Felstead  waylaid  me,  having  heard  that  Miss  Nawton  had 


THE  OBELISK  55 

spoken.  I  had  a  letter  from  Mr.  Bowden,  hoping  that  there 
would  be  no  strife.  The  cleavage  deepened.  Even  papa, 
who  wasn't  exactly  a  democrat,  said  that  all  the  village  had 
told  him  that  they  wanted  an  Ionic  cross.  I  told  that  to 
Miss  Nawton,  who  at  once  went  round  with  a  little  book, 
taking  votes  for  and  against  the  obelisk.  I  enjoyed  myself 
frightfully,  and  late  one  night  I  got  out  and  stuck  a  home- 
made poster  on  an  outlying  stable  door: 

UNDER  WHICH  OBELISK,  BURLEIGH  ABBAS? 
SPEAK  OR  DIE. 

Miss  Nawton  was  furious,  and  issued  a  roneotyped  mani- 
festo to  show  that  the  obelisk  was  cheaper  than  the  Ionic 
cross.  Mr.  Felstead  replied  by  a  public  meeting,  with  lantern 
slides,  on  a  trip  to  the  western  islands  of  Scotland,  including 
pictures  of  dummy  Christian  fathers  in  lona. 

ii 

I  told  Doctor  Upnor  about  it,  and  he  didn't  take  it  as  well 
as  I  did.  That  was  the  day  after  Miss  Nawton  published  in 
the  Basingalton  Herald  a  list  of  the  supporters  of  the  obe- 
lisk, headed :  "  Quality,  Not  Quantity.  Mind,  Not  Muddle." 
She  had  the  estate  agent,  Lady  Penley,  and  Mr.  Wardle. 
But  the  Ionic  cross  had  Lady  Edderton,  the  general  shop, 
the  post  office,  and  the  local  sculptor,  who  had  once  led  a 
sinful  life,  but  now  saw  the  light  and  hoped  to  carve  the  cross. 

"Oh  dear!"  said  Doctor  Upnor.  "I  should  laugh  like  you 
if  this  thing  wasn't  a  microcosm  of  society,  and  if  this  village 
row  wasn't  exactly  like  the  great  international  row.  Hun 
or  British,  Ionic  cross  or  obelisk !  Honestly,  if  Miss  Nawton 
could  do  it,  wouldn't  she  kill  Mr.  Felstead?" 

I  laughed.  "I  believe  she  would.  She'd  think  it  her  duty 
to  her  cause." 

"Exactly.  We  have  only  one  duty  to  our  cause — to  make 
it  prevail.  After  that  we  can  examine  its  merits.  But  don't 
let's  talk  of  this  village  row;  we  haven't  much  time.  Let's 


56  URSULA   TRENT 

sit  down  on  this  tree  trunk.  There's  no  moss  on  it  to  stain 
your  frock.  Look,  the  field's  full  of  pink  campion.  Pink 
campion  and  rosy  cheeks,  they  go  on  all  the  same  under 
Ionic  cross  or  under  obelisk.  You  see,  they  know  better." 
He  took  my  hand  and  examined  it  carefully.  "You  have 
beautiful  hands,  Ursula.  They  taper  like  spear  points." 
He  bent  down  and  kissed  my  hand  where  the  fingers  spring. 
It  stirred  me  and  made  me  uncomfortable,  for  I  knew  that 
next  he  would  kiss  me  really. 

"  Don't,"  I  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"I  oughtn't  to  meet  you.  What's  the  use?  You're 
married.  I  wonder  why  I  do  it  at  all.  I  know  it's  wrong 
of  me." 

He  smiled.  I  did  not  then  understand  how  much  this 
conversation  must  flatter  him.  It  flattered  him  so  much 
that  he  tried  to  draw  me  into  his  arms,  but  I  resisted.  I 
think  I  resisted  him  because  he  attracted  me.  I  took  a 
certain  pleasure  hi  this  renunciation.  "Don't,"  I  said  again. 
"I  can't  meet  you  if  you  do  that.  Why  do  you  come? 
Aren't  you  happy  with  your  wife?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."  He  sighed.  "One  falls  in  love. 
One  marries.  One  pulls  down  a  sort  of  safety  curtain  between 
oneself  and  the  world,  like  in  a  theater.  But  if  the  stage 
catches,  it  burns  all  the  same  behind  the  safety  curtain. 
You're  right.  I  ought  to  let  you  alone.  Oh,  not  from  the 
moral  point  of  view,  but  for  your  comfort.  It's  true  I'm 
not  happy.  I've  lost  adventure."  He  stood  up.  "Look 
here,  let  me  go  while  I  have  the  strength  to,  and  I'll  learn  to 
forget  you." 

Why  did  I  do  it?  Was  my  pride  outraged,  or  did  I  sud- 
denly feel  lonely  and  cast  out?  I  couldn't  bear  to  let  him  go 
like  that,  empty.  I  took  his  hand  and,  without  knowing 
why,  began  to  cry  as  I  pressed  it  to  my  lips.  Once  again  we 
ended  in  each  other's  arms,  promising  each  other  nothing, 
fearful  of  offering  more,  unable  to  offer  less  than  aimless 
caresses.  My  tears  had  stained  his  cheek,  and  in  a  kiss  I 
recovered  some  of  their  saltness. 


THE  OBELISK  57 


m 

I  went  to  stay  with  Colonel  Risby.  I  was  fond  of  him, 
queer  little  old  man.  He  never  could  express  himself  except 
through  phrases  such  as  "I  mean  to  say,"  or  "What  I  mean's 
this."  His  timid  eyes,  his  drooping  mustache,  everything 
repelled  clear  expression.  He'd  taken  to  respecting  me  since 
I'd  gone  out  into  the  world,  as  he  called  it;  he  wanted  my 
opinion  on  Europe  and  on  politics.  Sometimes  he  summed 
up:  "The  world's  changed  in  appearance,  but  not  really. 
Of  course,  Labor's  getting  too  much  pay,  but  prices  are  going 
up.  It's  all  the  same,  always  will  be."  Then  his  mind 
would  take  a  little  leap.  "The  duchess  is  full  of  funny  ideas. 
But  she's  no  good,  she's  nobody.  After  all,  she  was  only  a 
banker's  daughter.  You  can  see  it  coming  out  in  her  daugh- 
ter, Lady  Dorothy.  She's  in  with  the  wrong  set,  and  they 
say  she  doesn't  wash.  At  least,  at  Basingalton  they  call  her 
Dirty  Dolly."  Pause.  "There's  a  nice  church."  (We  were 
walking  by  the  Penley  wall.)  " See  it?  None  of  your  modern 
messes.  Pretty  green,  and  good  trees.  Suppose  they'll  be 
building  on  it  soon,  the  price  of  land  being  what  it  is.  And 
the  farming  returns  going  down  every  day.  Except  the 
dairy  farmers,  of  course.  They  can  afford  to  pay  four 
pounds  ten  an  acre.  No  wonder  everybody's  laying  land 
down  to  grass."  He  sighed.  He  was  poor;  taxes  were 
going  up;  the  newly  rich  worried  him. 

He  was  talking  to  the  collie  that  followed  us,  old  Chivvy, 
twisted-jointed,  rheumy-eyed:  "Come  on,  Chivvy.  Come 
on,  my  man,  my  manikin.  Come  on,  my  old  dog."  He 
seemed  so  lost,  this  little  old  man,  unchangeable  hi  a  changing 
world. 

"Nice  place,  Penley  Park.  There's  three  hundred  head 
of  deer  loose  there.  No  wonder  she  can  afford  to  subscribe 
two  hundred  pounds  to  the  church  fund.  Plenty  of  rabbits 
here.  Vermin,  of  course,  but  one  must  have  something  to 
feed  the  foxes.  They  caught  a  vixen  the  other  day  with  a 
bag  and  a  forked  stick."  Chivvy  was  lagging.  "Come  on, 


58  URSULA   TRENT 

old  dog;  come  on,  old  manikin."  He  stopped,  looked  out 
sadly  on  the  rolling  prospect  of  the  land.  He  seemed  to  feel 
the  passage  of  time.  "You  know,  I  begin  to  think  that 
things  are  changing,  after  all.  They're  breaking  down  the 
fences  now  to  steal  the  wood.  No  more  fences  soon;  only 
barbed  wire.  No  more  villages,  I  suppose,  with  all  the 
young  men  going  to  the  towns  and  the  girls  refusing  to  go 
into  service.  I  don't  know  what  they  want.  My  father 
always  got  his  gardeners  for  sixteen  shillings  a  week  and 
nothing  much  to  do."  Again  he  sighed,  stroking  the  thin 
scalp  of  old  Chivvy.  "They've  been  shooting  foxes  this 
year.  They'd  have  shot  a  man  for  doing  that  once  upon  a 
time.  But  now  we're  all  equal,  I  suppose,  and  nobody 
touches  his  hat  to  anybody." 

He  was  immensely  desolate.  It  was  like  seeing  something 
die.  Mrs.  Risby  was  not  like  that.  She  looked  like  an 
amiable  brick — once  handsome,  now  unpowdered.  She 
was  quite  happy,  going  to  church  twice  on  Sundays  and  buy- 
ing Longfellow  calendars  to  give  away  at  Christmas;  col- 
lecting varieties  of  homemade  jam,  dabbling  with  anti- 
suffrage,  her  garden,  the  selection  of  hymns,  the  cares  of  the 
G.F.S.,  and  the  proper  celebration  of  Empire  Day.  But 
Mrs.  Risby  was  a  Londoner,  used  to  activity.  Her  terrible 
activity  frightened  her  old  husband,  who  still  stood  in- 
credulously looking  upon  the  landscape,  as  if  he  could  see 
the  smokestacks  rising  beyond  the  peaceful  horizon. 

rv 

"  Ursula,"  said  mamma,  "  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  Of  course, 
I  know  there's  no  harm  in  it." 

I  guessed.    Of  course  mamma  thought  there  was  harm  in  it. 

"Only  I  don't  think  it  right  that  you  should  meet  young 
men  that  you  haven't  brought  to  the  house."  As  I  said 
nothing  she  went  on:  "It's  very  silly  of  you,  Ursula.  You 
ought  to  know  that  you  can't  do  anything  in  the  country 
without  being  seen.  I  don't  mean  that  makes  any  differ- 
ence," she  added,  hurriedly,  as  she  saw  me  smile,  "but  you've 


THE  OBELISK  59 

got  to  set  the  example,  and  I  can  hardly  believe  it's  true 
what  they're  saying  in  the  village,  that  you've  been  seen 
with  a  strange  young  man  in  Colby  Wood." 

"Yes,  it's  true.  His  name's  Doctor  Upnor,  from  the  hos- 
pital at  Woking." 

"Why  hasn't  he  come  to  the  house?" 

"Because  I  want  him  for  myself  as  my  own  friend." 

"Girls  of  your  age  can't  have  men  friends,"  said  mamma, 
solemnly,  "unless  I  know  them  too.  Oh,  I  know  it's  modern 
to  think  that  young  men  and  young  women  can  be  friends. 
But  it  always  ends  in  lovemaking." 

"It  does  not,"  I  replied,  angrily,  and  stopped.  Was 
mamma  wrong?  No.  And  she  was  clever  enough  to  feel  this : 

"Well,  if  it  hasn't  begun  it  will  begin.  It's  perfectly  im- 
possible for  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman  to  be  alone 
in  a  wood  several  times  without  lovemaking." 

"Oh,  mamma,  don't  be  so  old-fashioned!  We've  got  lots 
of  things  in  common — books,  ideas." 

"It  always  ends  the  same  way,"  said  mamma,  "and  it 
makes  talk.  Is  he  married?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  Ursula!" 

Then  I  surprised  myself  by  my  anger.  "Yes,  he's  married. 
What  difference  does  that  make?  You  talk  of  a  man  being 
married  as  if  he'd  been  chloroformed.  Really,  mamma" — as 
she  did  not  reply  I  grew  imprudent — "you  seem  to  think  that 
lovemaking,  as  you  call  it,  is  wrong." 

"Has  Doctor  Upnor  been  making  love  to  you?"  asked 
mamma,  with  Victorian  coarseness. 

"I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  have  the  friends  I  like,"  I 
replied,  evasively.  "After  all,  there  aren't  so  many  men." 

"But,  Ursula,"  said  mamma,  in  a  shocked*  tone,  "what 
does  that  matter?  I  don't  understand  you." 

I  lost  my  temper,  not  because  mamma  was  lying  to  me; 
she  wasn't,  and  that  was  the  terrible  part  of  it.  She  belonged 
to  a  period  where  nothing  mattered  to  women  except  men, 
and  she  didn't  know  it.  I  belonged  to  a  period  where  nothing 
mattered  to  women  except  men,  but  I  did  know  it.  I  told 


60  URSULA   TRENT 

mamma  that  I  was  nearly  twenty-five,  that  I  wasn't  going 
to  be  dictated  to,  and  that  all  this  was  ridiculous.  Papa 
came  in  and  became  very  angry,  by  mamma's  orders,  I 
suppose. 

"I  hate  this  place  and  I  hate  this  life  and  I  hate  every- 
body. And  I'm  not  going  to  be  shut  up  and  wait  and  wait 
until  one  of  the  men  who  aren't  killed  takes  pity  on  me.  I 
want  to  go  up  to  town." 

They  laughed  at  me.  I  had  no  plan  in  my  head  at  all,  but 
the  heaviness  of  Giber  Court,  like  the  misery  of  Colonel 
Risby,  was  driving  me  to  action.  I  tried  to  make  Isabel 
understand  when  she  came  for  the  week-end,  my  pretty 
sister  Isabel,  who's  got  a  touch  of  red  in  her  hair,  like  mine. 

"  I  know,"  she  said.  "  One  feels  like  that.  One  wants  some 
fun."  She  smiled  covertly.  "  Of  course,  when  one's  married 
it's  easier.  You  get  married,  Ursula,  and  then  we'll  see." 

I  had  a  sudden  realization.  Isabel  had  been  married 
eight  years,  and  at  thirty,  with  her  slim  figure,  her  broad, 
dark  face  and  sparkling  eyes,  was  certainly  the  pretty  Mrs. 
Osmaston.  Gervers,  her  husband,  hated  dancing,  hated  the 
theater,  loved  electrical  research. 

"Such  a  pity  Gervers  is  so  stuffy,"  she  said.  "But  there 
are  others,  when  one's  married,  to  give  one  a  good  time." 
I  didn't  say  anything,  and  she  added:  "Don't  be  silly,  Ur- 
sula. Don't  put  them  all  against  you  and  talk  of  going  to 
town  to  work.  You  won't  have  any  fun  if  you're  working; 
you  won't  have  any  frocks  and  you'll  be  too  tired  to  brush 
your  hair  at  night.  Let  me  get  you  married.  And  then  we'll 
see." 

She  was  cautious,  Isabel.  I  rather  liked  it.  It  was  more 
amusing  than  confession.  We  grew  more  intimate  during 
that  visit,  for  I  wired  Doctor  Upnor,  and  we  had  a  secret 
meeting,  followed  by  a  note  which  showed  that  he  was 
terrified  by  the  rise  of  scandal,  for  suddenly  he  joined  the 
merchant  service  and  took  a  berth  on  a  ship.  It  was  a 
beautiful  letter  he  sent  me;  men  who  don't  love  you  always 
send  you  beautiful  letters.  He  ended  it  with  a  hope  that  I 
wouldn't  forget  him.  What  brutes  men  are!  Can't  they 


THE  OBELISK  61 

have  the  decency  to  hope  we  shall  forget  them?  Oh,  the 
masculine  lust  for  possession!  They'd  like  to  think  twenty 
years  later  that  they'd  left  a  barb  in  our  hearts.  Oh,  how  I 
hate  them!  And  I'll  never  ;do  without  them  quite.  That's 
what  I  said  to  Isabel,  who  replied:  "Anyhow,  you're  rid  of 
that  mess.  Try  not  to  get  into  another  until  you're  married." 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "you  do  harp  on  this  marriage  idea." 

"That's  the  main  thing  for  a  woman.  You've  got  to  do 
everything  regularly  in  this  world:  first  your  christening, 
then  your  vaccination,  then  your  coming-out  dance,  then 
your  marriage.  After  that?"  and  a  pretty  sideways  smile 
illumined  her  dark  features.  "Well,  after  that  .  .  .  one  can 
see.  Marriage,  you  know,  it's  such  an  insurance.  It's  quite 
safe,  really,  if  you  spread  your  risk  a  little.  Though  the 
times  are  getting  easier,  now  that  dancing  is  so  subtle  that 
one  has  to  have  a  dancing  partner  and  that  no  other  will  do." 

"Isabel,"  I  said,  "you're  a  little  beast.  And  you  don't 
even  tell  me  enough  to  make  me  suspect  you  of  ...  well, 
suspect  you." 

Isabel  did  not  reply.  To  this  day  I'm  not  sure  of  her: 
she  is  prettier  than  ever,  and  has  demonstrated  to  Gervers 
that  he  needed  an  experimental  station  at  Harrow,  where 
he  often  sleeps.  One  can't  suspect  Isabel. 


Then  things  happened  suddenly.  It  was  as  if  I  couldn't 
bear  them  any  more.  Women  are  supposed  to  bear  things 
easily;  they  don't,  but  they're  made  to.  Suddenly  I  asked 
papa  for  an  allowance,  as  I  wanted  to  go  to  town  and  work. 

"My  dear  child,"  he  replied,  "these  things  aren't  done 
unless  you're  going  to  do  war  work,  and,  by  the  look  of 
things,  the  war  '11  be  over  in  a  month  or  so." 

"And  shall  I  be  over  then?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  Things  '11  start  up  again 
as  they  used  to  be." 

"And  I?  Shall  I  start  as  I  used  to  be,  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
one?  Will  Oswald  come  to  life  again?  No,  it's  no  good 


62  URSULA   TRENT 

talking.  There's  a  new  time  coming,  and  I  don't  want  to 
miss  it.  Give  me  an  allowance,  papa,  and  let  me  go  to 
town." 

He  did  not  reply  for  a  time.  We  were  in  the  study,  and 
he  was  polishing  his  school  cups.  He  was  very  proud  of  them, 
especially  of  the  Sargent  Athletic  Cup,  "won  by  W.  R. 
Trent,  1874."  There  was  also  a  cup  for  diving,  1878. 

"Look  here,  Ursula,"  he  said,  "don't  be  silly.  Isabel's 
married,  and  we  can't  let  you  go  for  a  silly  idea.  I  can't 
give  you  an  allowance  and  let  you  go  away  on  your  own  like 
this.  Tell  me,  what  do  you  want?  The  war's  ending.  There's 
going  to  be  dances  and  lots  of  fun,  and  we'll  go  to  town  for 
the  season,  and  all  that.  Don't  be  absurd." 

I  tried  to  bear  it,  when  suddenly  the  struggle  between 
the  lonians  and  the  obeliskians  developed  gigantic  local 
proportions.  The  lonians  won,  having  captured  papa.  On 
the  following  Sunday  Mr.  Bowden  was  foolish  enough  to 
refer  to  the  obelisk  as  a  heathen  symbol;  he  said  that  a 
pagan  symbol  would  not  be  erected  in  a  district  dedicated 
to  Christianity  for  twelve  hundred  years.  At  that  moment 
Miss  Nawton  rose  in  her  pew  and  said:  "I  protest  against 
the  statement.  You  know  nothing  about  it.  And  what  you 
know  about  it  is  not  true." 

The  congregation  was  first  amazed  by  her  presence  in 
church,  where  she  had  never  been  before.  Evidently  she 
had  hidden  behind  a  pillar,  but  in  a  moment  a  hum  of  horror 
surrounded  her  departing  presence,  while  Mr.  Bowden  prac- 
tically burst  into  tears.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  began  to 
giggle.  Everybody  was  on  his  feet,  murmuring,  and  I 
couldn't  stop.  I  gritted  my  teeth  together,  but  the  internal 
convulsions  were  frightful.  Suddenly  something  went  inside 
me  and  I  began  to  laugh  aloud,  louder,  and  louder.  I  think 
at  the  end  I  screamed  and  yelled;  at  last  I  collapsed  in  the 
churchyard,  where  papa  had  led  me  out,  asking  me  all  the 
tune  in  the  church  what  I  meant  by  it,  and,  as  soon  as  we 
got  outside,  what  the  devil  I  meant  by  it.  At  last  I  gasped: 

"Papa,  I  can't  stay  here.    Let  me  go  to  town." 

He  was  furious:  "You  shall  not  go  to  town.    Come  home 


THE  OBELISK  63 

when  you  feel  better."    He  strode  off,  leaving  me  upon  the 
tombstone. 

It  sounds  funny.  I  can  be  hysterical  again  when  I  think 
of  it.  It  wasn't  funny,  really,  for  this  was  the  prelude  to  a 
quarrel  lasting  a  fortnight,  at  the  end  of  which  I  told  papa 
quietly  that  I  was  going  to  town  next  day  and  that  my  life 
was  my  own.  They  relented  in  the  morning,  and  offered 
me  an  allowance  which  I  was  brutal  enough  to  refuse.  I  was 
nettled,  so  I  wanted  to  feel  heroic.  What  a  little  beast  I 
was!  When  I  think  that  if  I  have  sons  I  shall  be  upset  and 
angry  if  one  of  them  wants  to  be  a  curate  .  .  .  yet  I  had  no 
sympathy  at  all  for  my  parents,  in  their  horror  before  my 
rebellion.  One  doesn't  understand.  It  is  always  too  early  or 
too  late  to  understand.  I  didn't  even  think  of  them  as  the 
train  rumbled  out  of  Basingalton  with  my  luggage,  weighing 
very  little,  in  the  van. 


PART  II.    THE  BED  SITTING  ROOM 


Chapter  I 
The  Narrow,  Narrow  World 


I  WONDER  how  Dick  Whittington  felt  when  he  reached 
the  heights  of  Highgate  to  become  Lord  Mayor  of  London. 
I  expect  he  was  quite  as  nervous  as  I,  and  no  doubt  he  was 
still  worse  off.  For  all  he  owned  was  a  comforting  cat:  I  had 
quite  a  lot  of  money;  fifteen  pounds  in  notes,  amassed  out 
of  my  pocket  money,  because  I  hadn't  paid  my  bills;  a 
twenty-five-pound  war  bond,  which  I  had  bought  in  the 
Self  ridge  draw  on  the  chance  of  winning  a  prize;  and  thirty- 
four  shillings  in  loose  cash.  Total,  say,  forty-two  pounds; 
debts  well  over  fifty  pounds.  For  a  moment  I  felt  proud 
enough  to  pay  these  bills.  It  would  be  so  fine,  standing 
before  the  world,  clear  and  shining.  I  stood  debating  this 
outside  Waterloo  and  gazing  at  the  Union  Jack  Club.  Then 
I  thought:  "Well,  papa  has  always  paid  my  bills.  These 
bills  are  for  things  I've  had  while  I  was  living  there.  There- 
fore, if  I'd  stayed  at  home  he'd  have  paid.  After  all,  I 
haven't  ordered  any  clothes  since  I  arrived — namely,  five 
minutes." 

But  suppose  papa  didn't  pay?  Oh,  papa  always  paid. 
He  was  really  very  nice.  I'd  been  a  beast.  There  was  a 
train  back  soon.  But  I  remembered  the  obelisk.  No,  I 
couldn't  go  back  to  a  place  where  they  argued  about  obelisks 
and  Ionic  crosses,  and  supported  bad  jokes  about  mixed 
bathrooms.  Still,  papa  mightn't  pay,  and  the  shopkeepers 
would  suffer.  I  couldn't  let  that  happen.  But  I  owed  over 
fifty  pounds  and  hadn't  got  quite  forty-two.  I'd  have  to 
let  somebody  down.  Would  it  be  fair  to  pay  some  and  let 
the  others  down? 


68  URSULA   TRENT 

Of  course,  I  could  sell  my  jewelry,  but  it  wasn't  much, 
only  two  gold  bracelets,  a  rotten  signet  ring,  and  Oswald's 
ring,  which  I  couldn't  sell.  A  topaz  and  amethyst  brooch, 
not  worth  much,  and  a  pendant,  pretty  but  not  valuable. 

Then  I  rebelled.  After  all,  I'd  a  right  to  live.  Strictly,  it 
was  my  duty  to  live.  Suicide  was  not  allowed,  not  even  by 
starvation.  (I  know  better  now.)  Therefore,  if  I  wasn't 
allowed  to  starve,  it  was  my  duty  to  hold  on  to  my  forty -two 
pounds.  It  wasn't  much  with  which  to  face  the  world, 
though  otherwise  I  wasn't  badly  equipped,  for  I  had  quite 
a  good  stock  of  clothes  and  a  dressing  case.  The  thing  to 
do  was  to  protect  the  nest  egg  and  find  some  work  quickly. 
As  I  stopped  for  a  moment  on  Waterloo  Bridge,  where  the 
gulls  were  volplaning  and  side-slipping,  where  a  slight, 
dry  east  wind  ruffled  my  hair,  I  looked  for  a  moment  at  the 
prospect  of  the  river.  It  made  me  rather  nervous.  This 
enormous  stream,  the  piled  hotels  and  public  buildings  op- 
posite, the  dim  houses  of  Parliament  in  the  west.  This 
roaring  city,  these  crowds,  the  throbbing  of  the  bridge  under 
the  feet  of  the  multitude.  It  made  one  understand  what  a 
leaf  may  feel  in  the  wind.  I  was  exhilarated  and  terrified  by 
the  idea  of  conflict.  I  was  a  stranger;  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life  I  had  nowhere  to  go  and  no  one  belonging  to  me.  I 
had,  in  a  way,  ripped  myself  away  from  the  parent  tree,  and 
I  felt  sore  at  the  portion  of  my  being  where  we  had  parted. 

Then  I  reacted  and  addressed  myself:  "Don't  be  silly. 
You've  got  everything,  youth,  health,  some  people  say  good 
looks,  money  to  keep  you  a  little  while;  you're  a  good 
shorthand  typist,  or  more  exactly  a  government  shorthand 
typist.  So  don't  be  a  fool.  Your  luggage  is  in  the  cloakroom 
and  won't  worry  you.  Go  and  get  some  lodgings,  and  re- 
member that  the  girls  in  the  Food  Control  at  Basingalton 
seem  to  live  quite  comfortably  on  anything  between  thirty- 
seven  and  six  and  two  pounds  seven  a  week."  That  last 
remark  of  the  energetic  Ursula  to  the  craven  Ursula  was 
unfortunate.  Yes,  the  girls  lived  on  about  two  pounds  a 
week,  but  how  did  they  do  it?  My  felt  traveling  hat  cost 
three  pounds  ten,  and  when  I  went  round  to  Enos  with 


THE  NARROW,  NARROW  WORLD     69 

mamma  to  look  at  trousseaus,  I  hadn't  seen  a  camisole  fit 
to  wear  under  four  guineas.  Food,  too;  last  time  I  was  up 
with  papa  we  lunched  at  the  Berkeley.  Papa  gave  the  waiter 
a  pound  note  and  got  hardly  anything  back.  Yet  I'd  only 
had  lemonade.  As  I  walked  along  the  Embankment  I 
therefore  hesitated  again,  wondered  whether  I  couldn't 
stand  the  obelisk,  after  all.  But  I  was  excited  by  this  new 
sense  of  a  plunge  into  the  necessitous  life.  I  then  felt  what 
now  I  know,  that  poverty  is  exciting,  just  as  wealth  is  ex- 
citing, and  that  nothing  is  so  detestable  as  a  mediocre 
income.  People  of  middle  fortune  can  do  nothing  and  must 
appear  everything.  Still,  I  was  coward  enough  to  wish  I 
had  four  hundred  a  year. 

When  I  began  to  visit  furnished  rooms,  the  desire  for  four 
hundred  a  year  became  still  more  pronounced.  It  was  my 
fault,  I  suppose,  for  I  had  begun  with  romantic  notions — 
I  would  live  in  the  East  End.  Having  asked  my  way,  I  ate  a 
terribly  expensive  lunch  at  a  place  called  Pimm's,  and  ul- 
timately reached  Aldgate.  It  was  rather  a  jolly  street,  with 
lots  of  drays,  buses,  and  barrows;  for  a  moment  I  gloated 
before  an  eating  house  called  "The  Ten  Ounce  Chop,"  in  the 
window  of  which  steamed  large  trays  of  potatoes  and  greens 
cut  into  cubes.  The  sun  was  shining.  A  gay  November  day 
with  a  very  light  east  wind.  The  flags  of  Armistice  Day 
still  fluttered.  I  looked  into  the  mirror  of  a  tobacconist  and 
saw  that  the  wind  had  brought  color  into  my  dark  cheeks. 
I  was  pretty.  It  makes  one  feel  safe,  as  if  prettiness  couldn't 
die.  But  I  didn't  stay  in  the  East  End.  Ultimately  I  reached 
Bethnal  Green  Road;  half  terrified,  followed  by  the  inquisi- 
tive eyes  of  enormous  matrons  who  absolutely  eddied  in  their 
blouses,  I  visited  a  place  called  Satchwell  Rents.  With  a 
sense  of  diving,  I  rapped  the  knocker  at  a  house  which  adver- 
tised "Beds  for  Young  Business  Ladies."  Oh,  the  dark 
passage,  the  staircase  with  broken  and  slightly  greasy 
banisters,  the  second  floor  back  room,  the  yard  behind 
where  were  piled  battered  screens,  part  of  a  bicycle,  the 
contents  of  several  dust  bins,  broken  bottles'.  On  the  wall, 
two  skinny  cats  were  preparing  either  for  love  or  battle. 


70  URSULA   TRENT 

It  was  only  four  shillings,  but  I  nearly  ran  away.  I  did  not 
go  so  far  at  another  house,  for  there,  under  scanty  gray  hair, 
the  landlady  exhibited  a  doubtful  scalp.  A  third  house,  in 
another  side  street,  was  better.  Everything  had  been  re- 
painted, and  there  was  a  bathroom.  But  stuck  all  over  the 
bath  was  short  reddish  hair. 

"What's  that?  "I  asked. 

"Oh,  that's  nothing,"  said  the  landlady,  cheerfully.  (She 
was  very  stout  and  affectionate.)  "That's  only  some  of  ole 
Tun's  hair,  our  collie,  you  know." 

"But  do  you  wash  the  collie  in  the  bath?" 

"Well,  we  has  to  wash  'im  somewhere.  And  he's  that  big 
we  haven't  time  to  take  enough  pails  of  water  to  the  yard." 

I  left  the  East  End  after  my  next  experience.  I  had  been 
hanging  about  irresolutely,  when  at  a  door  appeared  a  very 
pretty  young  woman  who  looked  faintly  Japanese.  She 
wore  an  ill-fastened  skirt,  a  dirty  chemise,  and  a  short 
dressing  jacket.  She  drew  these  garments  together  from 
time  to  tune  with  a  beautiful  air  of  thinking  of  something 
else.  Whenever  she  ceased  to  concentrate  on  them,  it  was 
clear  that  she  was  not  ashamed  of  her  figure,  which  was 
charming.  After  a  moment  she  noticed  me,  and  with  a 
pleasant  smile  remarked:  "Hullo,  dearie!  Had  any  luck  this 
morning?" 

"Luck?"  I  said.    "What?    How?" 

She  stared  at  me.  "What  are  you  doing  here?  Aren't  at 
the  earhole,  are  you?" 

I  decided  not  to  betray  my  ignorance  and  replied,  calmly: 
"No,  I'm  looking  for  rooms.  You  don't  happen  to  know  of 
any,  do  you?" 

She  did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  but  examined  me.  Ob*, 
viously  she  was  pricing  my  clothes.  "Rooms,"  she  said,, 
vaguely.  "Aren't  you  a  bit  of  a  high-stepper  to  want  rooms 
about  here?  Still,"  she  added,  consolingly,  "we  all  has  our 
ups  and  downs,  don't  we?  Course  we  could  put  you  up  here 
if  you're  on  the  game." 

One  is  not  in  vain  for  four  years  a  nurse  and  a  government 
clerk.  One  learns.  So  I  was  shocked  rather  than  surprised 


THE  NARROW,  NARROW  WORLD     71 

when  a  young  man,  obviously  a  foreigner,  shouldered  past 
her  on  the  step,  leered  at  me  amiably,  and  remarked: 

"Hullo,  lovey !  How  did  you  find  us  out? "  Then — and  I  did 
not  at  once  resist,  because  I  could  not  expect  this — he  stepped 
down,  put  an  arm  round  my  waist,  and  tickled  me  under  the 
chin.  I  think  I  screamed,  and  I  know  that  I  ran  down 
Bethnal  Green  Road,  followed  by  a  growing  crowd  of  little 
boys  who  yelled,  "Stop  thief!"  until  I  leaped  into  a  tram. 
It  took  me  westward,  to  the  Bank.  But  this  was  not  west- 
ward enough.  I  ran  to  the  Tube;  only  at  Marble  Arch, 
where  I  got  out  to  see  familiar  and  inoffensive  Park  Lane, 
did  I  feel  safe.  No,  the  East  End  wouldn't  do.  It  would 
have  to  be  the  West  End.  Not  so  near  the  Park;  it  would  be 
too  dear.  Well,  I  might  go  near  Regent's  Park.  It  was 
characteristic  of  the  Ursula  of  that  period  that  she  could 
naturally  think  only  of  living  near  a  park.  So  I  attained 
Marylebone;  so  did  I  visit  all  the  afternoon,  until  it  grew 
dark,  houses  where  there  were  no  rooms  to  let  at  all,  houses 
where  two  rooms  cost  two  pounds  a  week,  luxurious  houses, 
dirty  houses,  and  one  house  where  I  was  told  that  I  mustn't 
bring  gentlemen  ...  an  enraging  suggestion.  I  at  last  found 
what  I  needed  in  Balcombe  Street.  It  was  very  civilized, 
with  Marylebone  Road  at  one  end  and  a  chapel  at  the  other. 
There  is  something  secure  about  chapels  and  motor  buses. 
Mrs.  Witham,  the  landlady,  was  in  no  way  cordial,  but  she 
showed  no  active  dislike  to  me.  The  linoleum  in  the  passage 
was  waxed;  the  bathroom  was  accessible  when  "the  gentle- 
men didn't  want  it,"  for  Mrs.  Witham  was  wholly  a  Victorian. 
The  third  floor  front  wasn't  bad  at  all.  At  least,  she  called 
it  the  third  floor  front,  but  it  was  only  half,  for  it  had  been 
divided  by  a  partition.  That  was  why  I  obtained  this 
individual  mansion,  one  bed,  one  table,  one  washstand, 
two  chairs,  a  chenille  hanging  for  the  mantelpiece,  four 
texts,  and  the  History  of  Scotland  that  lay  on  the  red-serge 
tablecloth,  for  eight  shillings  a  week.  At  seven  o'clock  I  was 
established.  The  contents  of  my  dressing  case  and  a  few 
books  and  magazines  made  a  big  difference.  The  only  thing 
that  seemed  funny  was  that  Mrs.  Witham  had  forgotten  to 


72  URSULA   TRENT 

place  a  copper  can  of  hot  water,  sheltered  by  a  towel,  into 
my  washing  basin. 


So  I  began.  I  had  real  moments  of  kingship  in  Balcombe 
Street,  such  as  letting  myself  in  the  first  evening  with  my 
own  latchkey,  after  another  expensive  meal  at  an  Italian 
restaurant  in  Chapel  Street,  which  was  very  good,  but  not 
so  cheap  as  it  seemed.  Also  waking  up  the  next  morning  in 
the  bed  I  paid  for,  able  to  ring  for  a  breakfast  I  paid  for.  To 
pay  for  things  is  a  great  delight:  one  buys  power  as  well  as 
things.  Still,  I  rose  early.  I  felt  that  in  London  one  must  do 
something.  The  only  question  was  what?  That  day  I  let 
the  labor  market  alone,  visited  London  that  I  knew  not  very 
well,  especially  the  drapers'  shops  along  Oxford  Street,  that 
mamma  had  never  taken  me  to.  They  were  more  exciting 
than  the  parlors  of  Mount  Street;  I  simply  couldn't  resist 
an  umbrella  of  imitation  malacca  cane  with  a  red-enamel  top. 
It  cost  sixteen  and  six,  but,  after  all,  I'd  left  my  umbrella  at 
Ciber  Court,  and  it  was  such  a  duck  of  an  umbrella.  That 
shop  provided  an  excitement,  for  somehow  I  got  up  to  the 
top,  to  the  accounts  department.  At  the  back  four  or  five 
girls  were  typing  hard.  I  looked  at  them,  half  envious,  half 
superior.  I  wished  I  had  their  job,  and  yet,  with  all  this 
money  in  my  pocket,  I  felt  rather  above  them.  Fortunately 
I  was  no  fool,  and,  observing  as  I  came  back  that  a  political 
meeting  would  be  held  that  night  at  the  town  hall,  I  went  in 
and  took  it  down.  Oh  dear!  this  shorthand  that  men  talk 
about  so  lightly.  It  was  easy  enough  noting  that  hour  of 
platitudes,  but  reading  it  ...  oh,  dear!  I  was  so  bad  at 
reading  my  notes  that  next  day  I  decided  not  to  bother  about 
that  side  of  it.  After  all,  taking  down  letters  was  different; 
the  thing  was  to  get  some  work,  and  at  once.  When  I  re- 
member my  next  thought  I  am  ashamed.  It  was  this:  "I 
wonder  whether  I  know  anybody  who  could  get  me  a  job?" 
It  didn't  occur  to  me  to  try  for  myself;  I  didn't  know  how 
to  do  it;  papa  had  got  me  into  the  hospital;  Lady  Halkyn 


THE  NARROW,  NARROW  WORLD     73 

had  got  me  into  the  Food  Control.  I  supposed  that  some- 
body would  now  get  me  into  something.  I  thought  every- 
thing was  done  by  patronage;  I  was  an  English  aristocrat, 
and  so  I  had  the  soul  of  a  flunky.  Perhaps  aristocrats  and 
flunkies  have  grown  alike  by  associating  for  centuries. 

So  I  tried.  Because  I  was  rather  qualmy  about  my  posi- 
tion, I  went  first  to  Lady  Halkyn.  She  was  a  perfect  darling, 
and  cried  when  she  saw  me,  because  I  made  her  think  of 
Oswald.  I  cried,  I  don't  know  why.  But  there  were  anchovy 
sandwiches  for  tea,  of  which  I  ate  a  lot  because  I  love  them. 
Lady  Halkyn  was  no  use  at  all.  She  said  she  didn't  know 
any  people  who  had  offices,  and  persisted  in  imploring  me 
to  come  and  live  with  her  and  be  her  companion,  practically 
her  daughter.  Of  course  I  couldn't  explain,  without  being 
rude,  that  I'd  given  up  being  a  daughter.  At  last  she  forced 
me  to  accept  ten  pounds  and  made  me  promise  to  come  and 
see  her  often. 

It  was  only  when  I  went  to  Aunt  Augusta  that  I  remem- 
bered that  Lady  Halkyn  had  not  said  a  word  against  my 
decision.  I  realized  this  because  Aunt  Augusta  occupied  an 
entire  hour  in  roaring  and  bellowing  about  my  disgraceful 
behavior: 

"I  can't  understand  how  a  girl  like  you,  who's  got  all  the 
opportunities  for  which  other  girls  would  give  their  eyes,  can 
do  a  thing  like  this.  You're  putting  yourself  outside  every- 
thing. What's  that?  Freedom?  Stuff  and  nonsense!  A 
girl  doesn't  want  any  freedom  until  she's  married.  That's 
her  freedom.  Oh,  it's  no  good  your  talking"  (I  wasn't),  "I 
don't  know  what's  coming  over  you  girls.  Heaven  knows! 
Girls  always  were  difficult,  but  when  I  see  you  to-day  with 
your  sham  curls  and  your  painted  mouths  .  .  .  don't  inter- 
rupt, they  are  painted  .  .  .  I'm  not  surprised  that  this  coun- 
try should  be  infested  with  Socialism;  and  all  those  modern 
dances. ...  I  was  taken  to  a  picture  show  the  other  day  and 
told  to  admire  a  landscape  that  looked  like  a  pattern  of 
linoleum.  Don't  argue.  Girls  who  argue  are  detestable; 
men  hate  'em." 

At  last,  very  timidly,  I  sought  her  help. 


74  URSULA   TRENT 

"Don't  expect  anything  from  me.  You're  an  unnatural 
daughter,  an  unnatural  girl,  and  your  conduct  is  perfectly 
disgraceful.  How  do  you  think  your  family  '11  like  it  when 
you're  selling  matches  on  the  pavement?  "  Aunt  Augusta  then 
dealt  with  night  clubs,  suggested  that  I  was  leading  a  loose 
life,  and  I  went  away. 

Monica  was  almost  as  bad.  I  was  rather  fond  of  her. 
We  had  been  at  Eastbourne  together;  she  was  small,  very 
fair,  and  quite  pretty.  I  hoped  a  great  deal  of  Monica,  be- 
cause her  father  was  a  rich  stockbroker. 

"Oh,  Ursula,"  she  said,  "I  couldn't  ask  father!  You  see, 
he  hates  the  idea  of  girls  in  offices.  Of  course  I  know  it's  old- 
fashioned  of  him,  but  he  says  that  woman's  sphere  is  the 
home." 

"  I  thought  all  that  rot  had  gone  with  the  war,"  I  replied, 
rather  rudely. 

"So  did  I,"  said  Monica,  piteously.  "It  did  go  with  the 
war,  I  think,  but  it's  come  back." 

At  last  I  saw  that  Monica's  father  would  do  nothing  for 
me  except  give  me  an  introduction  to  a  lunatic  asylum,  so  I 
accepted  her  invitation  to  go  out  to  lunch  and  on  to  the 
Palladium.  After  all,  she'd  pay  for  lunch.  I  was  getting 
mercenary,  and  no  wonder,  since  my  food  at  restaurants  was 
somehow  costing  me  eight  or  nine  shillings  a  day.  It  was 
about  then  that  I  discovered  that  a  fire  in  a  grate  can  do 
more  than  look  pretty.  Very  quietly,  rather  ashamed,  I 
brought  in  a  frying  pan,  on  which  I  cooked  sausages  and 
made  a  strange  scramble  out  of  farmhouse  eggs.  Other  eggs 
seemed  very  dear;  also  I  invented  a  lovely  dish :  bread  fried 
in  dripping  with  a  lot  of  salt.  It  was  rather  fun,  picnicking. 
Except  that  I  got  a  cold  out  of  it,  because  I  opened  my  door 
and  window  late  at  night  to  dispel  the  smell  of  cooking.  I 
couldn't  bear  that  Mrs.  Witham  should  know. 


Chapter  II 
Farewell  to  Plutus 

A  SORT  of  guilt  and  a  sort  of  shyness  at  first  prevented 
me  from  going  to  see  Isabel.  If  I'd  still  been  her  sister 
from  the  country,  yes.  We'd  have  talked  of  the  old  rocking- 
horse.  But  Isabel  married — Isabel  with  a  house  in  Cadogan 
Square,  as  slangy  as  me,  but  talking  a  different  slang,  smart 
slang  rather  than  war  worker's  slang,  good-looking,  though 
crude  where  I  am  delicate,  and  with  a  sidelong  glance  when 
she  talks  to  men  .  .  .  well,  was  she  Isabel?  Or  was  she  not 
rather  a  stranger,  Mrs.  Osmaston? 

Shyness,  no  doubt.  For  she  was  still  rich,  and  I  no  longer. 
But  at  last  it  struck  me  that  I  was  afraid  of  Isabel,  which 
proved  to  me  that  I  must  face  her.  My  beastly  old  tradi- 
tion, I  suppose.  I  was  right  to  be  afraid,  for  Isabel  just  burst 
at  me,  not  angrily  like  Aunt  Augusta,  but  in  a  nasty,  cold 
I  way.  She  didn't  call  me  unnatural;  she  called  me  a  damn 
j  fool.  She  sat  upon  an  Empire  couch;  it  was  covered  in  faded 
brocade  and  had  straight,  golden  legs.  From  time  to  time 
she  surveyed  neutrally  the  vast  drawing-room,  made  vaster 
by  the  tall  Louis  XVI  mirrors  that  reflected  endlessly  into 
one  another.  So  we  argued  in  a  twinkling  corridor. 

"How  you  can  be  such  a  little  fool,"  said  Isabel,  "I  can't 
understand.  You've  never  done  anything  queer  until  now. 
Really,  it's  hard  to  believe  we're  sisters." 

"But,  Bel!.  .  ." 

"You're  a  perfect  idiot.  For  no  reason  that  I  can  see,  ex- 
cept all  this  fuss  about  the  obelisk,  you  go  away,  quarrel  with 
papa,  who's  so  easy  to  manage  if  only  you  never  tell  him  the 
truth;  you  refuse  an  allowance  as  if  you  thought  you'd  have 


76  URSULA   TRENT 

to  be  grateful  for  taking  it.  And  you  start  out  in  life  with 
forty  pounds.  Forty  pounds!  Not  enough  to  buy  an  opera 
cloak." 

"I  can  work,"  I  replied,  a  little  arrogantly,  though  some- 
what annoyed  to  feel  that  I  couldn't  buy  an  opera  cloak. 
While  I  paused,  I  had  a  vision  of  the  opera  cloak  I'd  like  to 
have:  carmine  velvet,  not  that  rough  scarlet,  nor  that  ver- 
milion with  too  much  yellow  in  it,  but  true  carmine  velvet 
of  a  red  that  has  a  little  blue  in  it.  And  I'd  edge  it ...  mara- 
bout would  look  skimpy;  monkey  would  be  the  thing. 

"Work!"  Isabel  went  on.  "You  talk  like  a  suffragette. 
What's  the  good  of  work,  except  to  get  a  red  nose?  What 
do  you  think  you're  going  to  do?  Go  to  an  office  from  eleven 
to  three,  or  whatever  the  time  is?  Never  go  to  a  lunch  party? 
Never  be  seen  at  a  matinee?  Catch  trams?  Lunch  in 
A  B  C's,  I  suppose." 

"But  what  else  am  I  to  do?"  I  replied,  suddenly  aggres- 
sive. "It's  all  very  well  for  you.  You're  married  to  Gervers 
and  he  lets  you  have  your  way  in  everything.  What  would 
you  have  done  if  you'd  been  stuck  away  in  Hampshire, 
listening  to  the  churchwardens  wrangling  about  obelisks, 
and  never  seeing  any  men,  and  when  you  did  see  a  man,  like 
Captain  Stanhope,  sticking  a  silly  joke  about  sharing  bath- 
rooms. I'd  like  to  know  what  you'd  have  done?" 

"I'd  have  married  Captain  Stanhope,"  said  Isabel.  "The 
bathroom  was  a  good  beginning.  It  could  have  led  to  great 
things.  That  is,  if  he  could  afford  me." 

"Don't  be  silly,  Bel.  Everybody  knows  you  aren't  as 
hard  as  you  make  out.  You  wouldn't  have  married  Captain 
Stanhope  if  you  didn't  care  for  him.  You  were  crazy  for 
Gervers." 

Isabel  smiled  reminiscently.  "Yes,  I  was  rather  fond  of 
Gervers.  Perhaps  I  was  crazy.  But  then,  Ursula,  you 
know,  I  often  go  crazy.  For  instance  .  .  ."  She  stopped,  de- 
ciding to  be  discreet.  "Never  mind  me.  Since  you're  an 
ass,  we'll  have  to  find  something  for  you  to  do.  Well,  now 
. . .  come  to  lunch  next  week." 

"All  right,"  I  said,  feeling  that  this  discovery  of  some- 


FAREWELL  TO  PLUTUS  77 

thing  for  me  to  do  was  worthy  of  Mr.  Dick.  "What  day  will 
suit  you?" 

"Oh,  any  day — Tuesday,  Wednesday.  No,  I'm  lunching 
out  on  Wednesday.  Say  Thursday.  Lots  of  people  '11  float 
in.  They  always  come  on  here  when  the  Ritz  is  full." 

Isabel  was  very  like  herself,  and  I  could  not  help  admiring 
her  for  enjoying  herself  in  that  rough  way.  She  liked  what 
she  got,  and  I  wondered  whether  I  should  care  for  the  agi- 
tated life,  people  and  always  people,  and  the  social  security 
which  makes  it  possible  at  any  moment  to  build  up  a  scratch 
lunch.  It  did  not  feel  like  a  scratch  lunch  on  Thursday, 
unless  in  the  Isabel  world  everything  is  scratch.  Gervers 
was  not  there,  which  was  annoying,  for  I  knew  nobody.  I 
gathered,  less  from  mumbled  introductions  than  from  the 
conversation  at  table,  who  these  people  were.  At  first  I  did 
not  say  much,  for  five  years  of  war  had  made  me  clear- 
headed and  critical.  Cadogan  Square  amused  me  because 
it  was  so  far  away  from  the  girls  of  the  government  office, 
the  evangelical  memories  of  Nurse  Garthorpe,  and  the  rather 
sluttish  melancholy  of  Mrs.  Witham. 

This  house!  Are  there  special  architects,  upholsterers, 
psychologists  (all  by  appointment  to  His  Majesty,  King 
Plutus?)  spending  their  lives  on  producing  this?  They  al- 
ways produce  the  same  expensive  and  commonplace  statue 
in  the  hall,  the  same  study  where  nobody  studies,  with 
a  green  -  pile  carpet,  and  the  inevitable  large  silver 
cigarette  box.  Always  the  cook  produces  a  little  scratched- 
up  lunch,  comprising  caviare,  red  mullet,  cutlets,  a  mous- 
seline  of  fruit  that  looks  like  a  cloud,  while  the  cellarer  of 
Plutus  bottles  claret  that  shrinks  with  age,  democratic 
whisky,  brandy  that  must  be  at  least  five  stars.  Coffee 
appears  upon  a  silver  tray  too  heavy  to  be  carried  by  a 
woman.  I  remember  in  history  something  about  a  bishop 
who  was  crushed  under  a  cope  of  lead.  I  wonder  how  he'd 
have  stood  a  cope  of  gold?  Gold  may  be  lighter  than  lead, 
for  all  I  know. 

But,  at  Isabel's,  nobody  seemed  to  be  groaning  under  a 
cope.  I  was  sitting  next  a  man  called  Mr.  Bamburgh,  a 


78  URSULA   TRENT 

stockbroker,  I  believe,  portly,  rubescent.  Under  his  method- 
ical, not  very  Jewish  nose,  the  full,  pleasant  curves  of  his 
red  lips  let  pass  occasional,  faintly  hostile  references  to  the 
Jews.  Didn't  I  think  this  weather  very  trying?  Was  I 
thinking  of  going  abroad?  He  could  recommend  Barolino's 
hotel  in  Venice.  It  was  almost  as  good  as  the  Central  at 
Palm  Beach." 

"I'm  staying  in  town,"  I  say,  feebly.  I  look  down.  I 
haven't  the  courage  to  tell  him  the  truth.  He  espouses  my 
mood.  On  the  other  side  of  me  sits  a  Mr.  Guthrie.  Mr. 
Guthrie  simply  is  not,  except  that  he  eats.  He  eats  in  beau- 
tiful silence.  Isabel  is  flirting  with  a  tall  and  rather  hand- 
some man  whom  they  call  Lord  Alec.  What  a  weak  mouth 
above  the  Crusader  chin  that  makes  a  little  shadow  on  his 
collar.  He  is  being  grave.  He  is  talking  of  the  London 
County  Council  and  thanking  Providence  that  it  has  so 
little  power  to  spend  money. 

"All  these  people,"  he  murmurs,  loftily,  "they  get  pushed 
into  positions  they  aren't  fitted  for.  It's  a  great  mistake,  to 
hand  over  things  to  elected  bodies.  It's  a  pity  we  didn't 
learn  from  Germany  what  a  skilled  bureaucracy  can  do." 

Mrs.  Guthrie  spicily  interjects,  "That's  all  very  well,  but 
we  beat  the  Germans  in  spite  of  their  bureaucracy." 

To  which  Lord  Alec  replies  that  that's  as  may  be  and  the 
table  laughs  at  him.  They  don't  respect  Lord  Alec,  L.C.C. 
Is  it  a  case  of  contempt  breeding  familiarity? 

Mr.  Bamburgh  is  now  talking  of  the  best  hotel  in  Con- 
stantinople, of  heat  waves,  of  blizzards,  of  siroccos  and 
simoons,  his  brown  eyes  twinkling  and  staring.  There  is  in 
them  a  sheen  as  of  gold.  Do  his  eyes  reflect  the  chrysanthe- 
mums that  stand  on  a  silver  bracket,  amber  chrysan- 
themums? Farther  sits  a  large,  yellow  man  whose  name  I 
forget,  perfectly  dressed  hair  molded  on  his  yellow  head, 
mouth  closed,  chin  rammed  into  collar,  breaking  into  the 
politics  with  the  statement  that  Jack's  handicap  is  absurd 
and  that  he's  bound  to  win  the  Stoke  Poges  handicap  if  they 
leave  it  at  four.  The  men  talk  crossways,  and  I  have  time 
to  consider  the  women,  notably  Mrs.  Guthrie.  She  is  rather 


FAREWELL  TO  PLUTUS  79 

lovely  in  a  hysterical  way,  with  lustrous  brown  eyes,  like 
madeira,  surrounded  by  tired  zones.  She  is  astonishingly- 
smart  in  a  beige-tussore  afternoon  dress  over  which  falls  a 
black-silk  bolero.  On  her  hat  is  an  aigrette  that  could  never 
enter  a  motor  bus.  Her  skin  is  clear  and  pearly,  as  if  her 
creator,  instead  of  laying  on  separately  the  pink  and  the 
white,  had  mixed  the  two  on  a  palette  and  uniformly  spread 
the  result.  But  the  mouth  is  coarse,  and  not  very  skillfully 
molded  with  lip  salve;  the  fingers  are  a  shade  too  square; 
the  voice,  too,  is  a  little  harsh.  Something  wrong  about  her; 
those  hands  never  knew  the  washtub,  but  who  was  the 
mother? 

"I'm  all  for  unselfishness,"  she  says,  "but  one  thing  I 
won't  do — I  won't  buy  a  hat  for  a  country  cousin.  They 
always  say  I  have  no  taste.  Fancy  my  poor  Cousin  Ada 
with  an  aigrette!  And  I  love  aigrettes." 

This  produces  a  conflict  with  Mrs.  Radway,  who  has  social 
views  and  always  supports  plumage  bills.  She  fixes  a  malev- 
olent glance  on  Mrs.  Guthrie's  beautiful  eyes,  those  eyes 
with  the  faintly  bister  eyelids,  hunted  eyes  that  contrast 
with  the  smiling  mouth.  Mrs.  Radway  is  very  different, 
tall,  thin,  incredibly  agile  and  lanky.  She  expounds  social 
principles.  She  would  relieve  the  unemployed.  What  about 
allotments  in  all  the  parks?  She  goes  on  to  support  popular 
independence  and  parental  responsibility.  As  she  expounds 
she  jiggles  up  and  down  in  her  seat.  She  makes  me  think  of 
an  ostrich  that  has  swallowed  a  Catherine  wheel.  And  we  go 
on.  Everybody  talks  of  something  called  Carbis,  and  I  ask 
if  it  is  a  peer  or  a  bay. 

They  yell  at  this  frightful  pun.  Carbis  turns  out  to  be  a 
horse.  A  horse  that  belongs  to  somebody  called  Clan. 
Clan  is  discussed;  he's  a  giddy  youth.  We  pass  to  cars. 
We  all  have  cars  for  getting  about.  Why  get  about?  But 
then  we  all  have  the  fury  of  movement.  While  Mr.  Barn- 
burgh  goes  on  to  recommend  a  hotel  in  Cape  Town,  I  hear 
the  others:  Everybody  is  going  away,  or  just  come  back,  or 
is  going  to  stay  with.  Nobody  is  just  staying.  I  catch 
scraps:  "Last  week-end  at  the  Lydbrooks'  .  .  ."  "Cicely, 


80  URSULA   TRENT 

you  know,  she's  just  come  back  from  Scotland,  she  says  . . ." 
And  so  on.  What  would  happen  to  these  people  if  they  went 
to  gaol  for  three  months  and  had  to  bear  suspended  motion? 
We  do  not  talk  about  the  opera,  a  picture,  or  a  book.  No,  I 
must  be  fair;  we  have  an  excitement:  the  Daily  Mail  is 
booming  a  blind  ex-officer  as  a  sculptor. 

"Blind!"  says  Mrs.  Guthrie.  "What  delicate  hands  he 
must  have!"  Her  eyes  meet  those  of  Isabel,  and  they 
exchange  a  half  smile. 

"I  should  say,"  remarks  Mr.  Bamburgh,  ponderously, 
"that  he'll  make  more  money,  now  he's  blind,  than  he  ever 
did  with  his  eyes.  A  blind  sculptor!  What  an  advertise- 
ment ! " 

Then  we  go  upstairs,  we  women.  My  shameful  situation 
is  exposed.  Mrs.  Radway  promises  to  see  the  Charity  Or- 
ganization Society  on  my  behalf.  For  employment  or  relief, 
I  wonder?  I  talk  to  Mrs.  Guthrie,  for  I  like  her  savage  eyes. 
She's  a  fool,  but  I  can't  help  liking  her  when  she  explains 
that  she's  terrified  of  thunderstorms,  and  so,  when  she's  in  a 
car,  she  always  wears  shoes  with  india-rubber  soles,  these 
being  nonconductors.  We  get  on  beautifully.  Won't  I  come 
to  tea?  To  lunch?  To  anything?  Is  this  the  dawn  of  for- 
tune? Alas!  a  fortnight  later,  Mrs.  Guthrie  disappears  into 
a  private  home  for  morphine  maniacs.  She  comes  back,  I 
find,  a  year  later,  cured  of  her  vices  and  of  her  good  looks. 

"Cheer  up,"  says  Isabel,  as  I  go.  "I'll  look  out  and  find 
something,  even  though  you  are  a  prawn.  Oh,  you  nutty 
little  prawn!  why  didn't  you  stay  at  home  and  get  properly 
married?  Then  you  could  have  let  things  rip.  Well,  it 
can't  be  helped.  See  you  soon,  and  if  you  must  wear  stiff 
collars,  for  my  sake  don't  have  washable  ones." 

I  say  good-by.  In  the  hall  I  tickle  the  nose  of  the  Abys- 
sinian cat.  He  has  immense,  voluptuous  eyes  of  liquid 
amber,  in  which  float  two  narrow  black  lunes.  His  coat 
exhibits  a  fantastic  tabbiness;  if  you  turn  it  back  it  exhibits 
another  pattern.  Isabel  has  even  a  reversible  cat.  As  I  walk 
away  he  does  not  turn  his  head,  but  lets  his  sated,  indolent 
gaze,  wholly  detached  from  preoccupation,  free  from  respon- 


FAREWELL  TO  PLUTUS  81' 

sibility  and  love,  rest  upon  that  little  space  of  air  where  a 
moment  before  I  stood  and  now  stand  no  more.  I  am  an 
incident  to  this  prince  among  cats.  To  him  first  I  was  not, 
then  I  was,  now  am  no  more;  the  narrow,  cruel,  black  lunes 
take  in  as  much  and  no  more  of  the  empty  air.  He  is  the 
rich  world  to  which,  I  feel  it  in  sudden  agony,  once  I  was 
not,  then  was,  and  already  am  no  more.  Slowly  his  eyelids 
droop,  veiling  the  clear  amber  of  hii  eyes.  His  close-barbered 
head  sinks  into  the  good  lines  of  Nature's  coat  and  skirt. 
The  Abyssinian  cat  purrs  his  content  as  a  song  sweet  to  his 
own  ears;  he  has  been  fed. 


Chapter  HI 
Experience 


TT  was  rather  exciting,  searching  the  advertisement  columns 
A  of  the  Telegraph  and  the  Times.  Advertisements  are 
such  individual  things.  Their  length  or  their  brevity  reveals, 
on  the  one  hand,  the  fussy,  on  the  other  the  casual;  the 
clipped  word  must  mean  economy;  the  statement  of  the 
name  and  address  of  the  advertiser,  shamelessness,  or  a  con- 
science devoid  of  guilt.  At  least,  I  think  so.  I  like  to  weave 
personalities  round  these  demands  for  "Short,  typ.  (lady) 
exp."  I  have  a  vision  of  the  one  who  sends  out  this  little 
lonely  message  into  the  world  of  labor,  like  the  Chinaman 
who  floats  a  boat  of  golden  paper  on  the  Yangtze-kiang, 
trusting  that  it  will  reach  his  god.  Where  does  it  come  from? 
A  palatial  bank?  An  excited  theatrical  office?  Or  a  mellow 
room  lined  with  books  for  the  purpose  of  authorship?  All 
that  concealed  under  Box  T.  4978. 

The  trouble  was  that  I  never  found  out  who  hid  behind 
Box  T.  4978.  Answer  as  fully  as  I  might,  urge  my  qualifi- 
cations, protest  my  willingness,  reduce  my  salary  even  to 
two  pounds  .  .  .  nothing  happened.  They  didn't  like  me. 
There  was  something,  I  expect,  about  my  replies  which 
failed  to  seduce.  This  enraged  me,  for  I  felt  if  only  I  could 
see  these  people!  Which  means  that  I  had  some  secret  faith 
in  my  appearance  and  in  my  winning  way.  But  it  was  very 
expensive,  as  well  as  rather  sore  work,  for  the  postman 
knocked  as  much  as  he  liked,  but  never  brought  for  me  one 
of  those  longish  envelopes  with  an  embossed  stamp  on  the 
back,  or  romantically  inscribed,  "If  not  delivered  return  to 
the  Something  Company."  I  was  so  angry  that  I  spent 


EXPERIENCE  83 

seven  shillings  on  inserting  an  advertisement  myself.  All  I 
got  was  a  long  envelope  from  a  middle-aged  widower  in 
Essex.  He  needed  a  little  typing  and  no  shorthand,  but 
merely  general  services.  How  old  was  I?  Would  I  send  my 
photograph?  The  war  has  not  developed  the  young  English 
maiden  so  much  as  people  say,  for  I  hesitated.  It  sounded 
like  an  easy  job,  and  I  had  a  vision  of  a  beautifully  polished, 
courteous  widower,  slightly  misunderstood  by  a  blatant 
world.  If  it  hadn't  been  in  Essex! 

It  was  that  hesitation  that  helped  to  bring  me  into  contact 
with  my  neighbor  in  the  back  room,  whom  I'd  met  once  or 
twice  upon  the  stairs.  She  was  a  tall  girl,  darker  even  than 
myself,  good-looking  in  a  way,  with  large  features,  a  thick 
under  lip,  and  rather  prominent  brown  eyes.  She  had 
mumbled  something  that  sounded  like  "Good  morning,"  but 
I  knew  nothing  more  of  her  except  her  sounds.  Oh,  those 
lodging-house  sounds!  They're  bitter  things,  coming  to 
you  anonymously  when  you're  alone  in  your  room  with 
nothing  to  do,  with  nobody  to  go  to.  You  hear  the  clink 
of  china.  Water  flows.  You  can't  hear  the  scraping  of  the 
towel,  but  a  little  later  a  drawer  opens  and  closes.  Then 
you  hear  nothing  for  a  long  time,  except  a  wailing  barrel 
organ  in  Dorset  Square.  You  listen;  you  have  nothing  else 
to  do,  for  it  is  too  early  to  go  to  bed;  and  you're  sick  of 
reading.  Your  neighbor  coughs,  and,  supremely  free  from 
self  -consciousness,  spits.  Is  it  a  cold?  Is  she  bronchial? 
Or  asthmatical?  It's  interesting;  it's  a  fact.  No  doubt, 
Mabel  Thornton,  for  that  was  her  name,  listened  also  to  my 
sounds,  though  we  did  not  make  them  at  the  same  time. 
This  created  a  sort  of  community;  each  knew  what  the 
other  did.  We  might  have  gone  on  for  a  long  time,  bound 
miles  thick,  if  it  had  not  been  that  Miss  Thornton  also  found 
it  cheaper  to  cook  on  her  fire.  We  both  fried  sausages  to- 
gether on  different  fires.  What  a  lesson  in  Socialism,  as 
Doctor  Upnor  would  have  said.  This  evening  I  was  making 
a  new  dish,  recommended  to  me  by  an  old  patient  who  had 
learned  it  from  the  Germans,  a  delicious  thing  called,  I 
believe,  Armer  Ritter.  The  poor  knight,  according  to  the 


84  URSULA  TRENT 

recipe,  took  several  slices  of  bread,  soused  them  in  milk  in 
which  was  mixed  the  yolk  of  an  egg,  and  fried  the  result, 
adding  sugar  later  on.  It  was  lovely,  worth  fivepence  for 
an  egg;  milk  was  very  dear  too.  So  I  put  a  little  water  into 
the  milk;  the  eggs  were  farmhouse  eggs.  It  didn't  matter. 
I  was  rather  hungrier  in  London  than  I  had  been  in  Hamp- 
shire. The  air,  I  suppose. 

Well,  just  as  I  was  taking  out  the  second  slice,  there  was  a 
knock  at  my  door  and  the  girl  came  in: 

"Have  you  got  a  match?"  she  said,  gloomily.  "My 
fire's  gone  out."  I  held  out  the  match  box.  " The  fire  always 
goes  out,"  she  went  on. 

We  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  and  perhaps  I  was 
sensitive  that  night,  I  drew  an  additional  meaning  from 
that  remark;  as  I  looked  at  her,  I  found  myself  thinking 
of  hie  and  wondering  if  the  fire  always  went  out.  Queer 
girl.  I  saw  her  better  now.  She  had  fine  black  hair,  rather 
matted;  her  skin  was  greasy,  but  she  had  good  teeth  and 
beautiful,  rather  large  hands.  She  looked  unkempt  and 
uncared  for.  I  rose  from  my  knees,  for  she  still  stood  there, 
turning  the  match  box  round  and  round,  listening  to  the 
matches  clattering. 

"One  has  to  eat,"  she  said,  and  I  saw  in  her  eyes  something 
that  frightened  me,  for  it  was  so  unhappy.  It  broke  through 
my  reserve,  for  I  replied: 

"Yes,  one  has  to  eat  something  to  keep  alive.  One 
wonders  why." 

"Oh,  you  feel  like  that,  too!"  she  said,  with  a  little  smile. 
She  nodded  toward  the  frying  pan.  "What  are  you  making 
there?"  I  told  her. 

"Oh,  sounds  a  bit  thin.  The  sort  of  thing  women  are 
supposed  to  like.  Men  go  on  at  us  about  it,  don't  they?  If 
we  had  men's  wages  .  .  .  but  what's  the  good  of  talking!" 
She  went  out,  punctiliously  returning  my  matches  a  few 
minutes  later.  I  did  not  talk  to  her  again  for  several  days. 
She  did  not  offer  herself,  as  if  she  grudged  the  confidence  she 
had  given,  and  I  couldn't  offer  myself.  I  didn't  do  those 
things  easily  then,  and  I  don't  now.  This  reserve!  It's  un- 


EXPERIENCE  85 

bearable.  It  cuts  you  off.  It  cuts  you  off  when  you  don't 
want  to  be  cut  off,  when  you're  screaming  with  loneliness. 
I've  looked  out  into  Balcombe  Street,  where  nothing  happens. 
It's  about  half  past  six  and  night  is  falling.  No  taxis  pass 
and  the  tradesmen  have  done  for  the  day.  One  or  two  people 
return  from  work.  I  leave  that  window,  which  opens  upon 
nothing,  and  tell  myself  I  was  a  fool  to  leave  my  people, 
where,  at  any  rate,  somebody  would  cook  for  me.  But  I 
needn't  cook  yet,  so  I  walk  up  and  down  my  room,  and  it 
isn't  a  long  way,  to  and  fro  and  across  like  the  puma  at  the 
Zoo.  Nothing  is  mine  outside  these  walls,  and  I  can't  get 
out  because  there's  nowhere  to  go.  I  look  at  the  furniture 
again,  at  the  History  of  Scotland  on  the  red-serge  tablecloth. 

I  try  to  read.  Poor  as  I  am,  I  subscribe  to  the  library,  and 
still  I  follow  the  authors  Doctor  Upnor  indicated,  to  whom  I 
add  a  few  on  the  advice  of  the  Times  Literary  Supplement. 
I  have  two  to  chose  from  to-night,  both  very  dear  to  me,  The 
Celestial  Omnibus  and  The  White  Peacock.  "Which  shall  it 
be?  Forster,  and  beauty  of  mind,  or  Lawrence,  and  beauty 
of  soul?  Ghost  of  nymph,  or  nymph's  white  flank  gleaming 
in  the  glade.  Or  shall  I  drink  a  draught  like  champagne, 
tart  and  bubbling,  from  Anatole  France  in  The  Revolt  of  the 
Angels? 

Oh,  I  know  it  all,  I  know  it  all.  I'm  sick  of  my  books.  I 
wish  I  drank.  Then  I  walk  up  and  down  again,  and  to  and 
fro,  until  suddenly  I  rebel.  The  streets  are  mine  as  well  as 
everybody's.  I'm  angry.  I  drag  on  my  coat.  I  smash  my 
hat  over  my  brows.  (Men  don't  understand  how  protected 
a  woman  feels  when  she's  got  her  hat  well  down  over  her 
eyebrows.)  I  go  out.  It  is  dark,  coldish,  dampish.  Gloom 
in  the  streets,  and  a  greater  gloom  outside  the  blazing  shops, 
full  of  venal  welcome,  the  big  hotels,  full  of  costly  gayety. 
I  am  not  of  these  things;  I  haven't  enough  money  in  my 
pocket;  no  friends  upon  my  list.  No  friends  as  poor  as  I. 
These  things  aren't  mine;  they  only  belong  to  my  eyes. 

A  man  is  following  me.  I  am  used  to  that;  I  am  used  to 
snubbing  and  sulking  without  resentment.  I  think  them 
silly,  rather,  those  people  who  look  into  your  face,  pass  you, 


86  URSULA   TRENT 

then  stop  suddenly  to  look  into  the  window  of,  say,  a  laundry, 
devoid  of  any  interest,  so  that  they  may  look  again  when  you 
pass  and  venture  to  speak.  This  one  does  not  try  to  pass  me. 
His  tread  is  measured.  A  soldier?  Perhaps.  An  Australian? 
He'll  be  troublesome.  Still  he  does  not  gain  on  me.  Perhaps 
he  is  not  following  me,  but  only  going  the  same  way.  Irri- 
tating this.  Which  is  it?  Now  he  gains  on  me,  and  by  a  side- 
ways glance  I  see  that  it  is  a  not  ill-looking  officer.  He  says 
"Good  evening";  I  say  nothing,  but  only  walk  a  little 
faster.  Oh,  I  don't  like  him,  I  don't  like  him  . . .  but  a  sudden 
sense  of  my  loneliness  comes  to  me.  I've  nothing  to  do. 
Why  shouldn't  I?  After  all,  if  I'd  met  him  at  a  dance,  what 
harm  would  there  be  in  it?  He's  not  familiar;  he's  talking 
with  amiable  idiocy  of  the  evil  weather;  he  tries  to  move  me 
by  telling  me  that  he's  at  a  loose  end.  My  God!  don't  I 
know  that?  But  I  can't  answer.  Every  instinct  tells  me  not 
to  be  a  prig,  cries  out  that  there's  no  harm  in  this  acquaint- 
anceship of  a  few  hours.  I  know  there's  no  harm,  for  I'm  no 
fool,  but  ...  I  suddenly  slip  past  him  and  jump  into  an 
omnibus  that  has  pulled  up  to  deposit  a  passenger.  And  as 
I  stand,  swaying  at  the  rail,  I  am  almost  crying,  because  I 
have  thrown  away  this  chance  of  company;  this  motor  bus 
is  taking  me  I  don't  know  where;  the  bitter  part  is  that  it 
doesn't  matter  where.  It's  all  the  same.  All  crowds  provide 
the  same  loneliness  for  the  individual.  But  I  can't  do  it. 
A  dozen  times  in  my  life  I've  tried,  but  at  the  last  moment, 
even  when  I  have  replied,  when  I  have  been  attracted,  I 
couldn't  go  on.  The  hands  of  the  dead  women  of  the  Trent 
clan,  women  who  didn't  do  this  sort  of  thing,  have  plucked 
me  by  the  skirt  and  pulled  me  away. 


Why  is  one  like  that?  One's  afraid.  Men  are  frightening, 
not  because  one  thinks  silly  things,  that  one's  going  to  be 
kissed  in  Piccadilly  Circus,  or  drugged,  or  kidnaped;  one 
knows  that  only  happens  in  the  Sunday  papers.  But  men  go 
so  fast;  they  never  wait  for  us.  They  begin  making  love  to 


EXPERIENCE  87 

us  before  we've  made  up  our  minds  that  they're  wearing  the 
right  kind  of  collar  and  tie.  They  haven't  bothered  about 
our  equivalent  of  collar  and  tie.  They  don't  dwell  upon 
minor  pleasures.  If  they  are  of  an  inferior  class  .  .  .  one  just 
can't.  (Though  all  men  are  of  an  inferior  class  to  women, 
because  they  lack  external  delicacy;  they  are  often  our 
spiritual  superiors,  but  their  exterior!  It  takes  a  lifetime  of 
education  to  teach  a  man  to  clean  his  nails,  to  get  the  glaze 
off  his  forehead,  and  to  clean  his  teeth  before  caressing  us. 
Yet,  I  don't  like  them  when  they're  too  highly  polished  and 
smell  of  eau  de  Cologne.  Oh  dear,  I'm  hard  to  please.)  And 
if  they're  of  the  same  class,  one  can't  take  the  risk  of  meeting 
them  normally  after  a  casual  experience.  It  would  be 
awful. 

So  I  went  on  answering  advertisements.  I  got  so  far  as 
being  interviewed  by  a  Harley  Street  surgeon  who  needed 
a  secretary;  he  did  not  think  me  unsuitable,  but  told  me 
bluntly  that  I  was  too  pretty  for  him.  He  was  perfectly 
nice  about  it,  and  very  sympathetic.  As  he  put  it:  "A  good- 
looking  girl  who  works  is  out  for  a  lot  of  trouble  unless  she 
has  the  rare  luck  to  come  upon  a  cynical  employer.  I  mean 
an  employer  who  responds  to  her  charms,  but  is  disabused 
as  to  the  quality  of  his  own  emotions." 

I  related  this  puzzling  experience  to  Mabel  Thornton. 
"Oh,"  she  said,  "he  must  be  balmy.  I've  never  met  one  who 
was — how  did  he  put  it? — disabused  with  the  quality  of  his 
own  emotions,  and  I've  been  working  for  twelve  years." 

She  was  twenty-eight,  and  in  those  twelve  years  had  filled 
seven  situations,  starting  as  a  learner  in  a  typewriting 
agency,  passing  through  several  offices;  for  a  time  she  acted 
as  secretary  to  a  dramatist  who  was  affectionate  and  suffered 
from  eczema.  Now  she  was  a  clerk  at  Lealholme  &  Rother- 
by's,  the  big  Oxford  Street  drapers.  She  did  not  talk  much 
about  her  work.  She  was  intelligent.  As  she  put  it:  "They 
always  tell  you  to  take  your  work  seriously.  Well,  we've 
got  to  do  that;  men  see  to  that,  but  it's  the  rest." 

"What  else  is  there?"  I  asked,  for  I  was  very  depressed 
then.  "It  looks  as  if  one  just  ground  on  and  ground  on." 


88  URSULA   TRENT 

"One  does,"  said  Miss  Thornton.  "That's  about  it. 
One'd  go  off  one's  rocker  if  there  wasn't  anything  else."  She 
paused.  "Men  are  beasts.  Oh,  I  don't  say  one  can  do  with- 
out them;  no!  that's  the  beastliness  of  them.  You  wouldn't 
believe  it,  Miss  Trent,  but  a  man  can  be  fair  spoken  to  you 
day  after  day  and  night  after  night,  and  swear  you're  the 
only  one,  and  the  first  one,  and  you'll  swallow  it,  want  to, 
of  course,  being  a  fool.  He'll  give  you  things  and  treat  you 
to  things  .  .  .  and  you'll  go  home  of  nights,  moving  your 
lips  one  against  the  other  to  taste  his  last  kiss  again.  But 
while  you're  doing  that  he's  after  somebody  else.  Oh,  one 
doesn't  know,  of  course,"  she  went  on,  hurriedly,  "and  it's 
just  not  knowing  drives  one  crazy.  I  tell  myself  ...  I  mean, 
one  thinks:  What's  he  doing  now?  Suppose  it  wasn't  true 
that  he  only  gets  away  from  the  office  at  seven?  He  goes 
to  the  same  place  for  lunch  every  day;  there  are  waitresses 
there.  And  what  about  the  office?  What  about  the  girls 
there?  He  said  he  went  to  see  his  mother  the  other  night. 
Well,  that  may  be  true,  but  it  mayn't  be."  She  clenched  her 
hands.  "One  doesn't  know,  one  can't  know.  One  wants  to 
live  in  a  tin  with  him.  Then  one  'd  be  sure." 

I  did  not  reply.  Obviously  she  was  revealing  herself. 
She  was  so  intense  that,  just  then,  with  her  dirty  hair,  her 
glowing  eyes,  she  looked  wild  and  beautiful.  She  broke  off 
with  a  laugh. 

"What  a  lot  of  silly  talk  I  let  off.  You  mustn't  mind  me. 
I'm  often  taken  like  that."  Then  she  once  more  promised 
to  try  and  get  me  a  job  at  Lealholme's,  and  went  out.  Soon 
I  heard  her  slamming  drawers  and  cupboard  doors.  She 
went  out  nearly  every  night,  either  with  him,  I  supposed, 
or  to  walk  off  this  torture  of  suspicion.  To  spy  on  him,  per- 
haps. Who  could  say? 


in 

I  told  Uncle  Victor  one  or  two  of  my  experiences  in  the 
street.  Uncle  Victor  is  rather  nice.  At  that  time  he  was 
fifty-six,  the  most  determined  bachelor  I  ever  knew,  and 


EXPERIENCE  89 

lived  in  a  flat  in  the  Albany,  decorated  in  George  III  style, 
painted  in  true  Georgian  green  with  gold  moldings.  He  was 
entirely  surrounded  by  a  museum  of  Chardins,  Bouchers, 
Buhl  furniture,  Sevres  china,  and  suchlike  eighteenth-century 
impedimenta.  I  say  impedimenta  because  I  like  white  rooms 
furnished  with  one  writing  table,  three  hard  chairs  for  the 
visitors,  and  a  soft  couch  for  me.  But  he  gave  very  good 
dinners;  his  cook  was  his  contemporary,  and  so  was  his  valet. 
I  remember  at  that  time  dining  with  him,  and  thinking,  as 
I  rested  my  elbow  on  his  gleaming  mahogany,  that  I  was  out 
of  the  picture  in  my  last  season's  evening  frock.  He  was 
very  nice,  rather  like  my  father,  but  a  little  shorter,  and  his 
eyes  twinkled  more.  He  made  me  visit  the  flat,  even  his 
bedroom,  where  he  slept  in  an  enormous  bed  under  a  canopy 
on  four  poles.  It  was  covered  with  a  flowered  bedspread, 
one  of  the  few  thousand  bedspreads  that  have  decorated  the 
couch  of  Marie  Antoinette. 

"You  mustn't  stay  long  in  this  room,  Ursula,"  he  mur- 
mured. "Miskin  is  either  dumb  or  discreet,  but  he  has  his 
limits.  Also  my  pictures  are  not  edifying."  He  pointed 
toward  two  little  French  prints,  rather  on  the  edge,  and 
added:  "Don't  look  at  them.  This  room  is  very  unsuitable 
for  a  young  girl.  She  might  see  on  the  mantelshelf  too  many 
pretty  faces  in  plain  frames.  Do  not  look  at  your  old  uncle's 
past,  Ursula,  lest  you  think  evil  of  his  present,  and  grow," 
he  sighed,  "unduly  optimistic  as  to  his  future." 

I  had  to  turn  away  from  the  pretty  faces  in  the  silver 
frames.  But,  judging  from  the  way  in  which  they  did  their 
hair,  they  could  not  all  belong  to  Uncle  Victor's  past.  As 
he  led  me  out  of  the  room  by  the  arm,  which  he  held  a  little 
unnecessarily  high  above  the  elbow,  I  said:  "Oh,  Uncle 
Victor,  I  am  shocked.  If  I  weren't  one  of  the  family  you 
wouldn't  exhibit  .  .  .  these  portraits." 

He  smiled.  "No,  of  course  not.  One  must  have  tact. 
Now  and  then  a  portrait  must  be  withdrawn  . . .  for  the  day. 
It  can  always  come  back  a  little  later,  after  an  interlude. 
Every  portrait  is  an  interlude,  Ursula.  And  a  hundred  inter- 
ludes make  a  life." 


90  URSULA   TRENT 

He  was  rather  charming.  He  was,  to  me,  half  uncle,  half 
flirt.  He  treated  me  as  if  I  were  grown  up,  and  pretended 
to  be  very  shocked  when  I  told  him  that  I  had  been  tempted 
to  listen  to  the  soldier  instead  of  jumping  into  the  bus: 

"My  dear  Ursula,"  he  said,  "how  can  you  have  had 
such  ...  an  untraditional  emotion?  Girls  of  your  kind  don't 
do  these  things,  at  least  not  in  peace  time.  When  there's 
no  war  on  there  are  no  lonely  soldiers.  At  least,  after  what's 
happened  during  this  war,  I  can  hardly  believe  any  of  them 
are  lonely." 

Still,  he  questioned  me,  warned  me  against  many  dangers 
which  had  not  occurred  to  me.  The  varieties  of  ways  in 
which  my  undoing  might.be  brought  about  seemed  to  pre- 
occupy his  imagination.  I  almost  formed  the  idea  that 
Uncle  Victor  would  be  pleased  as  well  as  censorious  if  I  got 
into  a  scrape;  he  could  have  put  it  right  so  beautifully.  But 
he  did  not  suggest  that  I  should  go  home.  Instead  he  offered 
me  a  twenty-pound  note.  I  refused,  I  don't  know  why,  but 
promised  to  borrow  money  from  him  later  if  I  had  to  take  it 
from  anybody. 

"Never  borrow  from  a  man  you  don't  know,"  he  said, 
more  seriously.  "They  expect  too  much  per  cent.  Or  is  it 
so  much?  But  I  mustn't  say  those  things  to  you." 

Did  he  want  me  to  be  compromised?  Was  it  intolerable 
to  the  dear  old  viveur  that  any  woman  should  stay  uncom- 
promised,  even  his  niece?  As  I  think  of  him  now,  I  under- 
stand him  better:  If  I  had  been  compromised,  just  a  little, 
I  should  have  been  more  piquante,  more  accessible,  though 
forbidden.  There  would  have  been  a  sparkle  in  our  relation- 
ship. 


IV 

When  I  came  home  I  found  on  the  table  a  note  from  Mabel 
Thornton  informing  me  that  if  I  called  at  Lealholme's  next 
morning  I  might  be  given  a  temporary  job.  They  were 
engaging  a  number  of  clerks  for  stock  taking,  immediately 
after  Christmas. 


EXPERIENCE  91 

It  lasted  three  weeks.  Three  weeks  I  noted,  while  a  young 
man  sang.  He  wore  glasses  and  held  serious  views;  he  was 
grieved  when  my  cigarette  case  fell  out  of  my  little  bag.  It 
is  unforgetable,  this  song: 

"Sox,  navy  2,271!  Ditto,  tartan  Mackzie  243!  Ditto  T. 
mactosh  71!  Ditto  T.  McLeod  188!  Ditto  T.  Fraser! 
Ditto  T.  Sinclair !  Ditto  T.  Gordon ! . . .  Ditto  T ! . . .  Ditto. . . !" 

We  sang  songs  of  camisoles,  chanted  pajamas,  and  hummed 
suspenders.  Then  I  posted  the  stock  book  in  a  clear  hand. 
It  was  febrile,  for  Lealholme's  had  not  engaged  quite  enough 
clerks.  Perhaps  that  was  why  I  was  put  on  the  adding  up, 
but  I  stayed  on  this  dizzy  eminence  only  a  day  because  the 
checkers  discovered  that  I  seldom  obtained  the  same  total 
if  I  cast  up  top  to  bottom  as  when  I  did  it  from  bottom  to 
top.  It  went  on  for  three  weeks,  blouses  ling.,  ditto  insert., 
and  ditto,  ditto.  I  ceased  to  know  what  I  was  doing  and  it 
didn't  matter.  I  began  to  lose  count  of  time,  until  Saturday 
evening  (no  early  closing  for  us)  left  me  unemployed,  and 
gasping  as  a  starfish  on  a  beach.  After  a  fortnight  I  woke 
up  on  a  Sunday  morning,  murmuring:  "Corsets  full  fig. 
410!"  Just  as  my  three  weeks  ended  I  was  beginning  to 
think  that  this  had  begun  hi  the  dim  ages  that  preceded  his- 
tory, and  would  go  on  as  long  as  history.  Yet  I  was  sorry  to 
lose  the  job.  After  all,  I  was  getting  two  pounds  ten  a  week, 
and  I  was  half  sorry  to  leave  the  young  man  with  glasses, 
who  was  called  an  improver.  I  am  afraid  that  he  didn't 
improve  me  much,  and  I  never  kept  my  promise  to  come  to 
a  chapel  which  he  favored,  just  off  Edgware  Road,  even 
though  he  pleaded: 

"  Come  to  our  little  Beulah,  Miss  Trent."  His  voice  went 
down  a  semitone:  "It's  not  too  late,  for  there  is  a  fountain 
filled  with  blood  in  which  you  may  yet  be  cleansed.  You 
won't?"  he  said  in  a  more  melancholic  tone,  and  went  on 
folding  Bolton  sheeting.  So  I  left  him.  No  doubt  he  is  still 
folding. 

I  was  out  of  a  job  again,  and  I  did  not  that  night  conceal 
my  anxiety  from  Mabel  Thornton.    She  was  not  very  sym- 
pathetic, for  she  had  often  been  out  of  a  job  herself. 
7 


92  URSULA   TRENT 

"Oh,  don't  let  that  worry  you.  You'll  get  another  shop. 
If  that's  all  you've  got  to  bother  you,  you'll  be  all  right." 

I  couldn't  help  respecting  her.  She  was  so  unafraid,  had 
grown  used  to  fighting  the  world  and  beating  it.  I  felt  in- 
ferior. After  all,  we  girls  of  the  well-to-do  class  hang  about, 
costing  our  parents  some  hundreds  a  year,  and  the  most  we 
do  is  to  hold  up  the  sugar  tongs  and  say,  "One  lump  or 
two?"  We  tire  out  our  mothers,  calling  on  people,  and  sit- 
ting up  while  we  dance,  and  our  poor  old  parents  go  on 
keeping  us  until  they  can  find  a  man  who'll  take  us  on 
instead. 

"Marriage,"  she  exclaimed,  "what  a  game!  We  all  think 
it's  going  to  be  romantic.  I  was  reading  such  a  pretty  book 
the  other  day,  called  The  Rosary.  Sounds  all  right,  marrying 
a  blind  man,  until  he  starts  tumbling  over,  the  furniture  and 
getting  in  the  way.  Sounds  all  right,  marrying  anybody, 
until  you  see  the  people  who  do  it.  I  tell  you  what  I  think: 
marriage  is  only  a  dodge  for  getting  rid  of  being  in  love. 
Seems  to  do  it  right  enough,  anyhow." 

"Oh,"  I  murmured,  "don't  you  think  it's  worth  while  if 
you're  in  love?" 

She  turned  to  look  at  me,  her  mouth  retracted,  two  deep 
folds  surrounding  it.  "Worth  while?"  she  said.  "Well,  I 
suppose  so.  One's  a  fool;  one  can't  help  it.  I  suppose  I'm 
in  love,  if  waking  up  in  the  middle  of  the  night  and  running 
about  the  room  like  a  crazy  thing  because  I've  dreamed  he's 
with  some  other  girl  .  .  .  well,  if  that's  being  in  love,  I  am. 
If  looking  at  him  and  noticing  for  the  first  time  the  way  his 
hair  slopes  away  over  the  ears  and  feeling  weepy,  if  that's 
being  in  love,  well  there  you  are.  And  feeling  all  soft  and 
swoony  just  because  he's  helped  you  into  the  bus  by  the 
elbow."  She  buried  her  face  in  her  hands;  I  guessed  she 
was  crying.  Indeed  she  was,  for  she  added,  brokenly:  "And 
he  can't  care  like  that  .  .  .  other  things  ...  a  girl  .  .  .  can't 
think  of  anything  else.  I  don't  mind  billiards  .  .  .  but  just 
to  see  him  look  sideways  at  the  girl  who  brings  him  a  cup  of 
tea  at  the  ABC.  Just  to  know  he's  pals  with  his  sister- 
in-law;  natural  enough,  I  suppose,"  she  raised  her  wet  face, 


EXPERIENCE  93 

"but  I  can't  bear  it."  She  stood  up  suddenly:  "Ah,  that  '11 
do.  I  don't  want  to  be  soppy." 

Her  intensity  frightened  me;  she  was  so  entirely  given  up 
to  this  passion  for  a  man  whom  obviously  she  suspected. 
That  reference  to  the  waitress,  and  another  she  had  made, 
brought  up  a  picture  of  this  young  man,  a  rather  jolly 
young  clerk  in  the  city,  with  a  taste  for  bright  ties  and 
socks,  whose  salary  didn't  allow  him  to  marry,  and  who 
whiled  away  his  bachelordom  with  the  waitress  who  served 
him  daily,  with  the  shorthand  typist  in  his  office,  with  some 
girl  met  in  the  train,  and  negligently  left  at  his  feet  my  poor 
neighbor,  in  an  agony  of  apprehension  and  self-surrender. 
It  was  awful.  A  woman  in  love  is  worse  than  a  man;  she's 
so  abject.  I  think  a  man's  vanity  gives  him  a  sort  of  back- 
bone when  he's  like  that;  even  when  he  kneels  he  is  offering 
us  an  honor.  But  a  woman  can't  kneel;  it  isn't  that  she  must 
grovel,  it's  that  she  likes  it,  she  wants  his  foot  on  her  neck. 

I  went  on  answering  advertisements.  I  was  interviewed 
and  asked  out  to  dinner.  Didn't  go.  Wonder  why  I  didn't 
go.  He  wasn't  so  bad,  and  I  felt  so  divorced  from  the  past. 
That  was  my  fault:  I  had  been  cruel  enough  to  refuse  to  go 
home  for  Christmas,  and  to  write  a  priggish,  swanky  letter 
about  the  need  for  putting  all  my  energy  into  my  career. 
My  parents,  I  felt,  were  sentimental,  and  I  wasn't  going  to 
pander  to  their  silly  desire  to  collect  their  family  during  the 
three  or  four  absurd  days  when  good  will  is  compulsory.  I 
had  answered  their  sentiment  with  brutality.  What  a  little 
beast  I  was!  Youth  isn't  kind;  it's  as  clear  as  crystal  and 
as  hard. 


Chapter  IV 
Mrs.  Vernham 


RELIEF  did  not  come  in  a  long  envelope.    It  came  in  a 
telegram  from  Isabel: 

Call  to-day  Mrs.  Vernham  novelist  212  Connaught  Street  wants 
secretary  wear  pale  pink  Isabel. 

Good  old  Isabel!  But  my  gratitude  was  overlaid  with 
surprise  and  perplexity.  Why  wear  pale  pink?  Besides,  I 
hadn't  got  a  pale-pink  blouse.  Should  I  buy  one  on  the 
chance?  But  why?  I  only  understood  later!  Pink  blouses 
for  pale  novelists,  I  suppose.  But  shirts  were  very  dear:  I 
couldn't  get  anything  in  Jap  silk  under  twenty -five  shillings, 
and  if  she  didn't  engage  me  I'd  have  to  wear  it.  Me  in  pale 
pink  with  my  amber  skin!  No,  I  couldn't  do  it.  If  I  were 
starving,  perhaps.  Besides,  I  had  a  pale-blue  blouse  which 
would  go  with  my  ratine  coat  and  skirt.  It  would  have  to 
be  blue.  Blue  for  benevolent  novelists. 

Mrs.  Vernham  was  the  first  novelist  I  have  ever  met — 
indeed,  the  first  writer  but  one.  The  other  was  one  of  the 
Punch  men,  who  had  come  to  Ciber  Court  for  the  week-end. 
He  would  talk  of  nothing  but  political  economy  because  he 
was  sick  of  being  looked  upon  as  a  humorist.  Mrs.  Vernham 
would  be  different.  I  had  read  no  book  of  hers,  and  con- 
structed in  my  mind  a  still  beautiful  woman,  with  red  hair, 
long  green  eyes,  who  would  lie  upon  a  couch  covered  with  a 
leopard  skin  and  dictate  flaming  thoughts,  while  her  jeweled 
hand  toyed  with  fatal  orchids  in  a  green  vase.  This  was  no 
doubt  because  I  had  been  reading  a  little  Elinor  Glyn.  One 


MRS.   VERNHAM  95 

would  pass  one's  days  in  a  dream  of  passion.  Charming 
Russians,  elegant  Italians,  and  possibly  even  suave  Egyptians 
would  send  in  expensive  chocolates  and  romantic  photo- 
graphs. It  would  be  lovely. 

I  still  had  time  to  buy  one  of  Mrs.  Vernham's  books,  an 
eighteen-penny  edition  from  the  Marble  Arch  bookstall,  and 
skimmed  through  it  in  the  Park.  I  felt  this  to  be  diplomatic. 
Mrs.  Vernham  seemed  to  have  written  a  lot  of  books  besides 
this  one,  which  was  called  The  Rose  of  Yesteryear.  I  remem- 
bered hearing  the  titles  of  others:  Princess  Petunia,  The 
Fiancee,  and  I  was  sure  that  I  had  read  Little  Lady  Lingard, 
but  it  had  left  no  trace.  I  just  had  time  to  read  The  Rose  of 
<  Yesteryear.  It  was  about  a  woman  of  thirty-eight,  whose 
heart  had  been  broken  when  she  was  eighteen;  in  spite  of  all 
temptations  brought  about  by  her  beauty  and  her  virtue, 
she  refused  to  have  it  mended  because  she  was  consecrated 
to  the  memory  of  Him,  who  was  ill-mated  but  faithful.  She 
became  his  sweet  consoler.  She  even  reconciled  him  with 
his  wife,  pointing  upward  from  tune  to  time.  She  gave,  on 
their  birthdays,  presents  to  his  children,  who  were  called 
Egbert,  Lorna,  Esmeralda,  and  Corydon.  Then  the  wife 
died,  and  roses  were  planted  upon  her  grave,  the  heroine 
watered  them  every  Sunday  morning  after  church.  The 
children  needed  a  mother,  but  the  heroine's  ideal  stood  too 
high ;  she  could  not  lower  her  dream.  But  at  last  the  children 
called  for  her,  and  something  within  her  called  for  them,  and 
something  else  called  in  general.  The  little  children  cut 
bunches  of  roses  from  their  mother's  grave,  and  brought 
them  to  the  heroine,  followed  by  Him,  who  took  from  his 
pocketbook  a  faded  rose  that  twenty  years  before  he  had 
taken  from  her  hair  in  the  conservatory  of  Towers  Castle. 
And  the  little  children  turned  away  their  heads  modestly 
from  the  coronation  of  their  new  mamma. 

Yes!  a  pink  blouse  would  have  been  better.  It  was  too 
late.  But  I  still  had  time  to  go  to  the  ladies'  cloak  room  and 
bring  my  hair  down  well  over  my  eyes.  I  looked  1895  when 
I  appeared  before  Mrs.  Vernham.  She  was  about  fifty,  and 
her  main  suggestion  was  one  of  majesty.  She  had  light- 


96  URSULA  TRENT 

brown  hair,  dressed  in  rather  angular  and  extraordinarily 
neat  fashion.  It  failed  to  fit  her  general  coloring,  somehow; 
it  transformed  her  a  little.  Under  absent  eyebrows  lay  two 
aggressive  little  gray  eyes.  The  mouth  was  small,  and  made 
smaller  by  a  little  congregation  of  pink  chins  which  event- 
ually found  their  termination  in  a  black-silk  bodice  that 
centered  about  a  large  cameo  brooch.  These  impressions 
came  later.  The  first  thing  I  noticed  was  Mrs.  Vernham's 
nose,  a  considerable,  an  Albert  Memorial  nose.  That  nose, 
finely  molded  enough,  but  with  a  masculine  curve,  suggested 
endless  power  to  dominate,  but  she  was  quite  amiable. 

"You  have  been  recommended  to  me  by  your  sister,  Miss 
Trent.  Of  course,  I  know  that  family  affection  might  make 
your  sister  overlenient,  but  these  testimonials  that  you  show 
me  are  fairly  satisfying.  Yes,  I  am  quite  well  impressed." 

Then  I  saw  her  teeth.  Whenever  Mrs.  Vernham  finished 
a  sentence,  she  punctuated  with  a  profound  pause,  during 
which,  with  a  little  forward  jerk  of  the  head,  she  exhibited 
an  incredible  number  of  teeth.  She  paused  upon  her  teeth. 
I  overcame  my  attack  of  dental  fascination  and  urged  my 
willingness,  my  interest  in  literature. 

"Yes,  yes,  I'm  quite  sure  you  will  do  very  nicely.  Though 
it  is  a  little  unfortunate  that  you  have  been  in  a  government 
office,  Miss  Trent.  During  the  war  I  was  considerably  con- 
cerned with  the  official  committee  on  clerical  discipline.  I 
saw  very  regrettable  things,  Miss  Trent — tendencies  in 
speech,  in  costume!"  (Dental  pause.)  "Still,  I'm  quite  sure 
that  this  was  equally  uncongenial  to  you  and  that  only 
patriotism  made  you  tolerate  .  .  .  Well,  we  need  not  enter 
into  that.  I  will  dictate  to  you  as  a  test." 

I  passed  my  test  fairly  well.  No  wonder,  for  the  fragment 
Mrs.  Vernham  was  composing  extraordinarily  resembled 
The  Rose  of  Yesteryear,  except  that  this  time  He  was  called 
John.  "Such  a  strong  name!"  murmured  Mrs.  Vernham  as 
she  dictated.  Then,  "He  was  the  best  type  of  English 
manhood;  Eton  and  Oxford  had  .  .  ." 

Finally  I  was  engaged  after  a  little  difference  as  to  salary. 

"I  never  paid  more  than  thirty  shillings  a  week  before  the 


MRS.  VERNHAM  97 

war,  and  I  think  it's  a  great  concession  to  make  it  two 
pounds.  You  must  realize,  Miss  Trent,  that  your  position 
here  is  quite  different  from  the  one  you  would  have  in  an 
office.  You  tell  me  you  are  interested  in  literature,  well!" 
(Dental  outbreak.) 

"Oh  yes,"  I  said,  "I  read  a  great  deal,  and,  Mrs.  Vern- 
ham,  I'd  love  to  come  to  you.  I've  read  nearly  all  your 
books,  The  Fiancee  for  instance,  and  I  loved  Little  Lady 
Lingard" 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Vernham,  dentally,  "I  hope  you 
appreciated  the  point  of  view  of  Claribel.  The  critics  were 
most  unkind  to  me." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  hurriedly,  and  rushed  to  cover — namely, 
to  The  Rose  of  Yesteryear. 

"All  right,"  said  Mrs.  Vernham,  at  last,  "we'll  say  two 
pounds  five,  but  that's  only  because  I  must  have  a  lady.  I 
couldn't  bear  a  person  of  the  lower  class." 

So  we  began.  I  was  happy  in  a  way.  After  all,  at  last  I 
had  a  job.  I  was  earning  money,  real  money.  I  told  Mabel 
Thornton  that  night,  and  was  flattered  by  her  envy.  For 
Mabel  really  loved  Little  Lady  Lingard.  I  didn't  mind  it, 
for  in  those  days  I  hadn't  got  as  clear  ideas  about  fiction  as 
I  have  now,  and,  indeed,  at  first  I  took  quite  an  interest  in 
the  triumphs  and  misfortunes  of  Claribel,  of  Annabel,  in  the 
moated  granges,  and  the  manses;  I  supplied  details  when 
the  lover  went  shooting  and  the  heroine  hunting.  It  was  not 
very  hard  work.  Mrs.  Vernham  dictated  every  morning 
from  about  half  past  ten  to  half  past  twelve,  leaving  me  to 
transcribe  in  the  afternoon.  My  shorthand  was  just  about 
good  enough,  and  Mrs.  Vernham  made  no  fuss  about  typing: 
"You  see,"  she  remarked  once,  "I  don't  want  you  to  waste 
your  time  retyping  pages  that  are  a  little  faulty.  In  my 
earlier  days  it  would  have  mattered;  it  would  have  made  a 
bad  impression,  but  now  it's  all  I  can  do  to  satisfy  the  com- 
missions I  receive."  (Dentalism.) 

She  had  an  immense  idea  of  her  own  importance,  and 
twice  in  the  first  fortnight  I  was  told  how  some  years  before 
she  had  been  rung  up  by  the  editor  of  the  Times,  who  per- 


98  URSULA   TRENT 

sonally  begged  her  and  implored  her  to  produce,  in  time  to 
go  to  press,  a  three-thousand-word  article  on  Woman,  Her 
Past  and  Her  Future.  Mrs.  Vernham  went  to  the  office. 
She  was  greeted  on  a  metaphorical  red  carpet.  A  subeditor 
seized  the  sheets  she  flung  down;  the  foreman  printer,  fol- 
lowed by  the  printer's  devils,  stood  respectfully  outside, 
gasping  for  her  copy.  It  was  heroic. 

She  sat  on  committees;  occasionally  she  formed  part  of  a 
deputation.  She  lectured  on  virtue  and  its  vanishing,  on 
true  love  and  on  literary  style,  to  ladies'  clubs,  and  to  the 
uninformed.  She  left  me  every  afternoon  to  see  publishers 
and  editors,  to  object  to  wrappers,  to  demand  new  efforts 
from  her  agent.  She  was  everywhere,  knew  all  who  were 
willing  to  know  her  and  many  who  weren't.  She  appeared 
at  the  Botanic,  at  the  Church  Congress,  and  at  Cart  Horse 
Parade.  She  had  a  tooth  hi  every  pie. 

A  few  days  later,  as  tea  was  brought  up  to  me,  I  became 
conscious  of  a  new  factor  in  the  house,  of  a  young  man  of 
about  thirty.  This  was  Philip  Vernham,  my  employer's 
nephew.  Until  then  I  had  met  him  only  once  on  the  stairs, 
and  had  an  impression  of  a  very  pale  face,  rather  dead-looking 
black  hair,  a  clipped  mustache,  and  blue  eyes.  Irish-looking, 
except  that  his  features,  especially  his  mouth,  were  too  well- 
cut.  I  gathered  from  the  occasional  remarks  of  Mrs.  Vern- 
ham, who  had  to  talk  about  her  nephew  as  about  her  com- 
mittees, her  clothes,  her  future,  and  her  past,  because  they 
were  hers,  that  his  name  was  Philip,  that  he  had  just 
been  demobed  and  was  looking  out  for  a  job  as  a  civil 
engineer. 

"Of  course  Phil  needn't  hurry.  I  don't  want  him  to  do 
just  anything.  They'll  want  clever  young  men  to  rebuild 
Belgium  and  France." 

As  she  paused  upon  those  obtrusive  teeth,  for  the  first 
time  I  liked  Mrs.  Vernham;  there  was  something  so  fond  hi 
the  eyes  that  I  looked  away  from  the  mouth  that  drooped  as 
she  spoke  of  him.  It  was  clear  that  she  adored  him  and  that 
Phil  was  going  to  rebuild  Europe  all  by  himself.  She  sighed, 
"Boys  are  so  difficult."  I  gathered  that  Phil  was  a  spoiled 


MRS.   VERNHAM  99 

child.  I  knew  that,  one  morning  at  least,  he  had  breakfasted 
at  half  past  eleven. 

"Well,  well,"  said  Mrs.  Vernham,  with  an  air  of  self -recon- 
struction, "we  mustn't  waste  our  time.  Paragraph?" 
Which  meant  that  I  must  pick  up  the  place  where  we  had 
stopped  the  day  before. 

"...  And  a  great  sweetness,  sweet  as  an  April  morn,  stole 
over  them.  As  if  calling  across  the  deep  a  voice  ..." 

"A  voice,"  repeated  Mrs.  Vernham,  dreamily,  "that  had 
oeen  gathering  strength  through  the  ages,  to  call  unto  these 
two  that  were  joined  .  .  .  no,  not  joined  ...  ah!  united." 

As  I  took  down,  various  emotions  filled  me:  a  certain 
interest  in  the  story;  a  feeling  of  automatism,  of  taking  down 
without  knowing  what  I  was  doing,  quite;  a  preoccupation 
with  Philip  Vernham,  spoiled  and  rather  pleasant  to  think 
of.  The  last  feeling  predominated,  so  that  in  the  afternoon 
I  found  that  once  or  twice  I  put  down  "his  blue  eyes,"  instead 
of  "her  blue  eyes."  (Mrs.  Vernham's  heroines  were  always 
fab-.)  Then  I  forgot  all  about  him.  One  reason  was  that  I 
had  troubles  of  my  own.  From  November  until  the  end  of 
February  I  had  spent  over  thirty-six  pounds,  and  when  I 
think  of  what  I  was,  I  can't  understand  how  I  managed  to 
spend  so  little,  for  it  worked  out  at  about  three  pounds  a 
week.  But  I  was  getting  forty-five  shillings  a  week,  and 
though  I  paid  only  eight  shillings  for  my  room,  I  didn't  seem 
to  be  able  to  manage.  There  was  breakfast,  four  shillings  a 
week,  not  much  money  and  not  much  breakfast;  there  was 
lunch,  and  though  I  went  to  Lyon's  and  the  ABC  that 
was  another  six  or  seven  shillings  a  week.  Tea  cost  nothing, 
for  it  was  given  me,  to  be  taken  in  my  own  time,  and  again 
not  much  time  and  not  much  tea.  But  dinner  was  very 
awkward,  because  I  did  not  yet  know  that  the  workinggirl 
does  not  dine,  but  sups.  I  had  ridiculous  ideas  about  soup, 
fish,  entree,  joint,  and  savory;  so,  hah*  the  week,  I  revolted 
against  the  cremation  of  sausages  on  my  fire,  and  rushed  out 
in  a  desperate,  debauched  way  to  the  expensive  Italian  res- 
taurant, or  to  Sam  Isaacs'  and  cod's  roe.  Oh,  cod's  roe! 
I'm  a  pig,  I  can't  help  it;  it's  one  of  my  forms  of  sensuality. 


100  URSULA   TRENT 

Then  there  were  horrid  details:  washing,  for  I  changed  my 
underclothes  much  more  often  than  a  virtuous  girl  needs.  I 
had  a  frightful  laundry  bill :  four  shillings  a  week !  And  coal ! 
And  light!  And  fares!  And  foolish  moods  when  I  just  had 
to  go  to  a  cinema,  or  to  buy  a  china  pig,  or  something  to 
wear.  That  was  it.  I  could  live  on  forty-five  shillings  a 
week,  but  I  could  not  clothe  myself.  I  knew  it  could  be  done, 
but  I  didn't  know  how.  Mabel  Thornton  did  not  help  me 
because  her  budget  was  muddled  up  by  her  boy,  Jim,  who 
took  her  out  to  dinner  and  afforded  her  pleasures.  What  was 
I  going  to  (Jo?  My  boots  needed  soling  now — eight  and  six — 
and  I  ought  to  go  to  the  dentist.  Also  I  must  be  waved  now 
and  then.  A  life  on  the  absent  wave,  I  felt,  would  not  be 
worth  living.  So  one  week  I  was  four  shillings  down,  another 
ten  shillings.  Once  I  saved  sixpence. 

"It's  your  own  fault,"  said  Mabel.  "There  you  sit  at 
home  and  mope,  paying  everything  for  yourself.  I  can't 
make  you  out.  If  I  were  you  and  had  your  looks  I'd  have 
got  myself  off  long  ago." 

We  had  rather  a  quarrel  over  that,  because  I  mistook  the 
meaning  of  getting  oneself  off,  and  Mabel  was  furious.  I 
gathered  that  one  only  got  oneself  off  superficially,  and 
that  the  reward  was  chocolates,  cigarettes,  pit  seats,  food, 
and  ginger  ale.  As  we  grew  reconciled,  Mabel  failed  to 
explain  how  I  could  get  myself  off.  "One  meets  men,"  she 
remarked,  vaguely.  "If  you're  clever  you  can  keep  'em  off 
it.  If  you  want  to,"  she  added,  gloomily,  and  suddenly 
became  secretive. 

I  suppose  it  was  this  conversation  facilitated  the  ap- 
proaches of  Philip  Vernham,  though  accident  had  to  do  with 
it.  (As  Mabel  put  it,  "One  meets  men.") 

It  was  in  the  afternoon,  when  Mrs.  Vernham  was  out, 
bullying  the  publisher,  flattering  the  manager,  and  kissing 
the  compositor  so  as  to  get  her  book  advertised.  (Phil  put 
it  like  that.)  I  was  typing  a  letter  to  a  lord,  where  "your 
lordship"  figured  every  three  lines.  His  lordship  was  the 
chairman  of  one  of  Mrs.  Vernham's  committees,  a  committee 
for  the  training  of  discharged  and  demobilized  female  govern- 


MRS.   VERNHAM  101 

ment  staffs.  I  did  not  hear  the  door  open,  and  a  sudden 
giggle  formed  as  I  had  a  vision  of  the  discharged  and  de- 
mobed  flappers  whom  Mrs.  Vernham  wanted  to  educate 
in  bookkeeping  and  ethics.  The  poor  children!  They'd 
had  such  a  lovely  time  during  the  war,  buying  face  powder 
three  years  earlier  than  they  expected,  breaking  their  hearts 
over  soldiers,  and  earning  as  much  money  as  their  fathers 
used  to.  Now  they  were  to  be  given  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  vaccine, 
warranted  to  make  one  immune  (comparatively)  against 
passion  and  other  worldly  pomps,  to  induce  the  taste  for 
hair  scragged  d  la  virtue  and  not  d  la  Delysia.  I  remembered 
Miss  Moss  in  the  Food  Control,  carefully  entering  the  office 
on  stilts  that  had  been  fitted  to  her  shoes  in  lieu  of  heels, 
putting  on  her  gloves  to  boil  the  kettle,  sealing  a  love  letter 
on  mauve  paper  with  primrose  sealing  wax.  .  .  .  She  was  mar- 
ried, but  lots  were  not.  I  had  a  vision  of  Miss  Moss  when 
the  D.  D.  F.  G.  S.  had  done  with  her.  Enough  to  make  one 
giggle. 

"What's  the  joke?"  said  a  pleasant  voice. 

I  turned,  confused.     "Nothing." 

He  stepped  forward,  looked  at  what  I  was  doing.  "Oh," 
he  said,  "  I  see.  Or  rather,  I  don't.  You  seem  to  have  found 
a  joke  in  auntie's  literature." 

I  refused  to  give  myself  away,  and  calmly  he  sat  down. 
A  few  minutes  later  tea  came  in,  and  he  ordered  his  own. 
I  was  rather  shy  of  him.  I  felt  inferior.  I  wasn't  yet  used 
to  meeting  socially  people  for  whom  I  worked.  The  govern- 
ment was  different,  of  course.  He  seemed  to  know  a  little 
about  me. 

"I  hear  you've  run  away  from  home,"  he  remarked. 
"That's  very  enterprising.  Auntie  says  you're  a  revolting 
daughter,  and  that  she  doesn't  know  that  she  ought  to 
encourage  you,  but  then  she's  a  pal  of  Mrs.  Osmaston's,  and 
no  doubt  she  thinks  she'll  reform  you.  She  may,  you  know, 
so  be  careful.  She  always  tries  it  on  girls." 

"And  on  men?"  I  said. 

"Never.  Thinks  we're  hopeless.  Or  likes  us  best  as  we 
are.  You  must  have  noticed  that  all  her  heroes  have  vices. 


102  URSULA   TRENT 

Haven't  you?  And  that  sweet  feminine  influence  generally 
pulls  them  round  about  page  three  hundred,  which  leaves 
ten  pages  for  the  wedding  within  the  ninety -thousand-word 
limit." 

I  laughed.  He  was  rather  pleasing,  but  there  was  some- 
thing I  didn't  like  in  him.  The  voice?  A  faint  cockneyism? 
Also  he  wasn't  as  good-looking  as  I  had  thought,  for  the 
features  were  too  clean-cut,  almost  mean,  and  the  blue  eyes 
set  too  close  together.  Still,  I  couldn't  be  rude  to  him. 

"You  don't  seem  to  care  for  Mrs.  Vernham's  works." 

"Do  you?"  he  asked. 

"Is  it  a  fair  question?" 

"Why  not?  No  novelist  is  a  heroine  to  her  secretary. 
But  never  mind  auntie's  immortal  works.  Tell  me  about 
yourself." 

I  didn't  tell  him  very  much.  I  wasn't  used  to  telling  about 
myself.  I  told  him  in  a  garbled  way  that  I  was  bored  with 
the  country,  and,  as  my  people  wouldn't  agree,  had  to  come 
to  town  and  work.  I  told  him  only  what  he  knew. 

"That's  very  sporting  of  you."  He  was  not  stupid;  he 
conveyed  at  the  same  time  admiration  for  my  pluck  and 
interest  in  my  career.  Several  times  he  said  he  was  wasting 
my  tune,  and  went  on  doing  so.  When  he  left,  a  little  later, 
I  realized  that  I  knew  nothing  about  him;  he  did  not  talk 
about  himself;  he  had  discussed  my  past,  extracted  from  me 
a  few  hints  of  my  present  difficulties,  cleverly  suggested  that 
my  attractiveness  would  soon  insure  me  friends.  But  of 
himself,  nothing.  That  should  have  warned  me.  It  took  me 
years  to  find  out  that  the  man  who  holds  forth  to  you  for  an 
hour  about  his  golf  or  his  engineering  is  not  dangerous.  If 
he  attracts,  it  is  just  because  he  does,  and  that  does  not  often 
happen;  but  the  man  who  lends  a  ready  ear  to  what  you 
have  to  say  of  yourself,  your  fears,  your  hopes,  who  induces 
your  confidence  and  asks  no  sympathy  in  return,  is  an  in- 
finite danger,  because,  endlessly  asking  nothing,  he  becomes 
a  delicious  habit.  One  doesn't  need  him,  but  one  needs  his 
ears.  He  becomes  the  sounding-board  of  one's  own  self,  in 
a  way  one's  visible  self.  And  what  can  one  refuse  to  oneself? 


MRS.   VERNHAM  103 


I  had  almost  forgotten  Monica  when,  one  morning,  a 
note  came,  saying  that  she  never  saw  me  now,  and  as  she 
had  lots  of  things  to  tell  me,  tea  was  no  good,  and  wouldn't  I 
come  for  the  week-end?  I  went;  I  wanted  a  change.  I 
wanted  space  and  lots  of  light.  It  was  not  so  very  nice, 
after  all.  Monica's  people  had  a  big  house  in  Rutland  Gate, 
with  a  garden  round  it,  and  in  the  first  hours  it  was  de- 
licious once  more  to  see  the  large  room  round  me,  and  no 
longer  to  hear  the  gas  sizzle  in  the  mantle,  but  to  sit  there, 
becomingly  colored  by  electric  light  which  was  concealed 
in  the  cornice  and  reflected  from  the  ceiling.  It  was  nice  to 
have  for  tea  jam  sandwiches,  ham  sandwiches,  caviar  sand- 
wiches, and  it  would  have  been  very  nice  at  dinner,  too,  for 
the  people  were  pleasant,  talking  in  the  familiar  style,  about 
Jessie  who  was  coming  back,  and  Charlie  who  was  passing 
through,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  my  frock.  I  wore  my  blue 
charmeuse;  it  wasn't  very  new,  for  I  had  danced  in  it  a  bit 
the  previous  summer.  But  that  wouldn't  have  mattered  if 
I  hadn't  had  to  wear  it  three  times  in  the  last  three  months, 
for  Isabel  and  Uncle  Victor:  I'd  gone  in  the  bus. 

I  shouldn't  say  any  more  if  I  thought  that  only  women 
would  read  this  story,  but  men  may  do  so,  too.  They  don't 
know  what  it's  like,  evening  frocks  in  a  bus.  Men  sit  there 
in  their  comfortable  evening  clothes  of  black  cloth  that  last 
forever,  and  their  patent-leather  shoes  that  one  could  play 
football  in.  They  look  across  at  us  and  think  we  look  so 
nice,  with  our  dear  little  shoes  of  blue  and  gold,  and  our  heads 
charmingly  swathed  in  veils.  They  think  we  look  very 
sweet  and  happy,  while  we  think:  The  heel  of  my  right  shoe 
caught  between  two  ribs  on  the  floor  of  the  bus.  Is  it  scraped? 
And  did  the  hem  of  my  frock  touch  the  step  of  the  bus  as  I 
climbed  in?  If  so,  is  it  muddy?  If  it  is  muddy,  is  it  touching 
my  pale-blue  stockings?  Is  the  damp  coming  through  my 
thin  shoes?  Or  are  my  feet  only  cold?  Oh,  I  wish  I  could 
lean  back  and  rest  my  head  against  the  window,  but  I 


104  URSULA   TRENT 

daren't;  there's  my  hair.  Hair!  I'm  positive  that  it  '11  be 
wild  before  I  get  there.  Fares !  How  am  I  going  to  find  two- 
pence in  my  little  bag  unless  I  take  my  gloves  off?  It  '11 
take  five  minutes  to  get  my  gloves  off.  .  .  . 

It's  no  fun  wearing  an  evening  frock  in  a  bus.  We  are 
finally  dismayed  when  the  conductor  solemnly  treads  on 
those  blue  and  gold  shoes.  Pain  and  mud.  We  get  there  at 
last,  to  see  the  others  coming  out  of  cars,  out  of  another 
world — the  others,  the  sisters,  the  rivals.  They  haven't  got 
a  bit  of  powder  off  the  top  of  their  nose,  not  having  had  to 
wrap  their  heads  up.  I  had  that  bus  feeling  throughout  the 
week-end.  On  the  Saturday  night  we  went  to  the  theater, 
and  afterward  Monica  came  into  my  bedroom  in  a  delicious 
dressing  gown  of  pink  crepe  de  Chine  edged  with  swansdown. 
She  was  going  to  be  married.  It  wasn't  quite  public  yet, 
because  the  engagement  was  only  two  days  old.  He  was 
wonderful.  He  wras  second  secretary  at  the  Embassy,  in 
Madrid,  and  only  thirty-four.  Even  if  the  duke  didn't 
help  him,  though  of  course  he  would,  he'd  be  an  ambassador. 
Monica  would  love  Paris,  though  Petrograd  would  be  nice 
when  all  this  silly  Bolshevism  was  over.  Of  course,  they 
wouldn't  be  very  well  off.  Redvers  said  that  if  she  could 
run  the  palace  of  the  Infanta  Concepcion  on  four  thousand 
a  year,  she  ought  to  have  the  Royal  Housekeeping  Society's 
medal.  Oh,  Redvers  was  a  darling.  And  she  was  so  happy. 
It  would  be  lovely  in  Madrid — lots  of  dances,  and  at  the 
theaters  they  had  plays  .  .  ."  she  giggled:  "...  Redvers  says 
they  aren't  squeamish  over  there,  as  we  are."  Of  course 
he'd  get  lots  of  leave,  for  shooting  in  August.  She  wanted 
to  go  to  San  Sebastian,  too,  Redvers  said  they'd  have  a 
villa  there. 

It  jarred.  It  was  nasty  of  me,  but  I  couldn't  help  it.  I 
felt  out  of  it,  cut  off  from  all  these  securities.  If  Monica 
didn't  marry  Secretary  Redvers,  I  supposed  she  would  marry 
Captain  Hildebrand  of  the  Guards,  or  promising  young 
Selwyn,  M.P.  She  only  had  to  trot  along  nicely,  enjoy  her- 
self, want  what  she  got,  and  get  it.  Forty-five  shillings  a 
week !  I  weakened  on  the  Sunday  and  asked  Monica  whether 


MRS.   VERNHAM  105 

she  thought  I'd  done  wrong,  and  whether  I  ought  to  go  home. 
Monica  thought  I  had  done  wrong.  Above  all,  she  thought 
me  silly.  But  she  didn't  help  me  much,  because,  in  a  mo- 
ment, we  returned  to  Redvers.  I  saw  then  that  I  must 
fight  this  by  myself.  I  understood  it  still  better  next  day, 
as  I  meditatively  extracted  from  steak  and  kidney  pudding 
fragments  that  fortunately  could  not  be  identified;  I  realized 
that  it  was  no  use  going  with  people  like  Monica.  Their 
talk  was  not  my  talk.  I  couldn't  go  on  disregarding  my 
aloofness  from  the  play  of  the  day,  from  week-ends  at  houses 
like  Giber  Court;  I  couldn't  refuse  to  play  bridge,  and  I 
wasn't  good  enough  to  do  so.  Above  all,  I  couldn't  again 
show  that  charmeuse  frock;  to  do  it  up  would  cost  ten 
pounds.  No!  Omnibuses  can't  consort  with  cars. 

I  don't  pretend  that  I  took  this  easily.  Indeed,  this  re- 
nunciation was  a  sort  of  agony.  I  didn't  have  the  glad 
content  that  I  felt  after  that  lunch  at  Isabel's,  when  I  bade 
farewell  to  Plutus,  for  in  those  days  I  had  nearly  forty 
pounds;  it  seemed  a  lot  of  money,  so  I  could  afford  to  say 
good-by  to  Plutus,  now  Plutus  was  saying  good-by  to  me. 
And  he's  a  patronizing  god.  I  was  losing  my  old  friends,  and 
I  had  no  new  ones.  It  was  that,  I  suppose,  made  me  feel 
more  kindly  to  Philip  Vernham,  who  evidently  was  not  pur- 
suing very  hard  that  opening  as  an  engineer,  for  now  he  came 
in  almost  every  day,  wanting  a  book  or  a  pencil;  or  had  he 
left  some  notes  on  my  table?  He  stayed  sometimes  a  few 
minutes,  sometimes  half  an  hour.  He  was  getting  bolder 
now. 

"It  does  seem  a  shame  that  you  shouldn't  have  a  better 
time,  Miss  Trent.  It  must  be  so  dull  for  you  in  the  evenings. 
What  do  you  do  with  yourself?" 

I  told  him. 

"But  don't  you  think  it's  a  pity  to  stay  lonely  like  that? 
When  one's  got  eyes  soft  as  those  of  an  antelope,  and  hands 
like  a  spray  of  fern?" 

I  did  not  reply.  He  made  me  uncomfortable  in  a  nice  way. 
He  went  on  analyzing  me,  the  grace  of  my  carriage,  the  amber 
quality  of  my  skin.  It  was  rather  exciting;  he  sat  in  a  chair, 


106  URSULA   TRENT 

not  far  from  me,  and  now  and  then,  as  he  leaned  forward,  I 
thought  he  would  try  to  kiss  me.  That  would  be  awkward 
in  my  position,  for  I  didn't  want  him  to,  and  yet  I  wanted 
him  to  want  to.  It  was  very  nice  being  vaguely  afraid.  I 
grew  a  little  more  nervous  a  few  days  later,  when  I  met  him 
in  the  hall,  his  hat  on,  as  I  was  leaving,  for  he  said  he  was 
going  my  way,  to  St.  John's  Wood,  and  walked  with  me  to 
my  door,  amusing  and  flattering  me  by  asking  me  what  I 
thought  of  the  people  we  met,  and  stopping  me  seriously 
outside  a  milliner's  in  Edgware  Road  to  discover  a  becoming 
hat.  He  took  me  to  my  door,  and  I  was  horribly  embar- 
rassed. Supposing  he  tried  to  come  up?  Mrs.  Witham  would 
never  stand  it.  But  he  did  not;  he  thrust  into  my  hand  a 
small  parcel  he  had  been  carrying,  and  walked  away,  laugh- 
ing: half  a  pound  of  chocolates,  fifty  Turkish  cigarettes,  and 
The  Young  Visiters. 

What  is  one  to  do  with  a  man  like  that?  I  wondered  about 
him  as,  that  evening,  I  smoked,  nibbled,  and  laughed.  I 
knew  nothing  about  him.  He  was  a  shadow,  a  good-tem- 
pered, intelligent  shadow.  That  made  me  feel  important, 
for  I  was  enormously  myself,  and  he  my  reflector. 

Next  day  he  asked  me  to  come  out  to  dinner.    I  refused. 

"Don't  say  no,"  he  murmured,  leaning  toward  me. 
"You're  so  delicious  to  look  at."  I  hesitated;  his  admiration 
was  so  frank,  and  I  love  a  brutal  compliment.  We  all  do. 
When  a  man  bluntly  says,  "You're  perfectly  lovely,"  we  have 
a  mixed  feeling,  which  amounts  to:  "WTiat  lies  you  tell! 
What  a  fool  you  are!  But  it  may  be  you  mean  it,  and  it 
may  be  true." 

So  I  said:  "I  don't  think  I  ought  to.  Supposing  Mrs. 
Vernham  found  out,  she  wouldn't  like  it." 

"You  needn't  tell  her.  Of  course  she  wouldn't  like  it. 
If  you  were  a  little  frump  she  wouldn't  mind.  But  do  come. 
It  isn't  so  very  cheerful  in  the  evening  at  the  club,  or  here 
with  auntie  reading  me  selected  bits  from  Pretty  Polly's 
Fortune.'" 

"Well,"  I  said,  "I'll  tell  you  to-morrow."  He  embarrassed 
me;  he  did  not  exactly  please  me  in  himself;  only,  in  his 


MRS.   VERNHAM  107 

eyes,  I  was  such  a  personality.  But  if  I  went  out  with  him, 
what  would  happen?  He'd  be  sure  to  make  love  to  me.  I 
didn't  want  that.  Didn't  I?  In  my  perplexity  I  decided  to 
consult  Mabel. 

I  found  it  difficult  to  ask  what  more  or  less  I  meant — 
namely,  should  I  let  men  make  love  to  me  or  not?  I 
wasn't  used  to  discussing  that  sort  of  thing.  While  I  sat  in 
her  only  chair,  by  the  fire,  Mabel  Thornton  sprawled  on  the 
bed.  She  seemed  listless. 

"Mean  to  say  there's  a  man  after  you?"  she  said. 

"Well,"  I  replied,  made  shy  by  crude  truth,  "not  exactly 
that,  but  he  talks  to  me  and  wants  me  to  go  out  to  dinner 
with  him." 

"Well,"  said  Mabel,  "why  don't  you  go?  Do  you  fancy 
him?  If  you  don't,  perhaps  you  fancy  the  dinner." 

I  did  not  reply  at  once.  I  did  fancy  the  dinner,  and  so 
did  not  want  Mabel  to  suggest  it.  "  I  don't  want  his  dinners," 
I  replied,  grandly. 

"What  are  you  bothering  yourself  about,  then?" 

"Oh,  dear,"  I  sighed,  "I  don't  know!  Only  I  feel  I'd  like 
to;  after  all,  I  don't  have  a  very  good  time,  but  if  I  go  out 
with  him  he'll  think  he  can  .  .  .  Well,  you  know  what  men 
are.  I  don't  want  him  to.  So  if  I  let  him  spend  money  on 
me  it  wouldn't  be  fair." 

Mabel  suddenly  sat  up,  shaking  a  clenched  fist;  her  voice 
suddenly  grew  harsh.  "Fair!"  she  said.  "What's  that  got 
to  do  with  it?  Talk  of  being  fair  to  men!  You  might  as 
well  talk  of  being  fair  to  tigers.  They'll  use  you,  they'll 
play  with  you,  they'll  lie  to  you.  Oh,  they're  beasts.  You 
needn't  trouble  to  be  fair  to  them.  My  word!  A  man  knows 
how  to  look  after  number  one.  Don't  you  take  men  like 
that,  Miss  Trent.  You  get  what  you  can  out  of  them. 
Feed  out  of  their  hand,  and  don't  be  afraid  to  bite  it." 

I  was  frightened.  She  sounded  hysterical.  So  I  murmured: 
"But  surely  you  don't  feel  like  that  yourself?  I  don't  want 
to  seem  inquisitive,  but  you've  said  that  you,  too,  you've 
got  somebody." 

She  slid  off  the  bed,  her  skirt  and  petticoats  rucking  up 


108  URSULA   TRENT 

and  showing  her  cotton  stockings.  "Yes,  I've  got  some- 
body. Or  somebody's  got  me.  It's  like  the  fly  and  the  fly- 
paper; who  knows  which  is  which?  Do  you  think  I  like  it? 
Do  you  think  I  enjoy  it?  But  what's  the  good  of  talking  to 
you!  You  don't  understand  what  it  means  to  have  a  man 
hold  you  hi  his  arms,  and  as  he  kisses  you  to  tell  yourself, 
"This  is  heaven.'  And  at  the  same  time  to  smell  his  mus- 
tache and  ask  yourself:  'What's  that  scent?  In  whose  arms 
was  he  half  an  hour  ago?'" 

"But,"  I  said,  "if  you  feel  like  that,  why  don't  you  let 
him  go?" 

Her  eyes  looked  wild,  small,  brown,  hi  big  whites.  "Let 
him  go,"  she  murmured.  "How  can  you  let  a  thing  go  when 
it's  got  you?  If  you  feel  faint  when  he  takes  your  hand  at 
the  pictures  ...  to  say  nothing  of  what  it's  like  when  you 
give  him  everything." 

I  was  silent.  I  had  not  expected  this  confession.  I  knew, 
of  course,  that  girls  who  aren't  married  sometimes  have 
lovers  in  the  full  sense,  but  I'd  never  met  one.  This  woman, 
acknowledging,  was  a  sort  of  outlaw  to  me,  an  adventuress, 
different  from  me.  She  dared.  I  half  admired  her. 

"Well,"  she  said,  roughly,  "I  suppose  you're  shocked, 
Miss  Trent.  You'd  better  get  used  to  it  in  this  world.  I'd 
rather  go  on  the  streets  to  feed  him  than  be  what  they  call 
respectably  married  to  anyone  else.  I  don't  care  what  he 
does  to  me,  it's  him.  But  don't  you  do  it."  She  surprised 
me.  How  could  she  warn  me  against  a  course  which  seemed 
to  enthrall  her?  She  felt  this,  for  she  explained:  "I  don't 
mean  it  doesn't  make  one  happy.  It  does  that;  I  didn't 
know  what  happiness  meant  till  I  stopped  refusing  him.  But 
when  you  do  that  you've  half  lost  a  man.  He's  got  you. 
He  knows.  He  feels  safe  of  you.  All  the  other  women,  he 
hasn't  got  'em  yet,  and  that's  why  they  tempt  him.  And  you 
don't  know  what  he's  up  to.  I  suppose  that's  love,  hah* 
hating.  I  could  kill  him  so  that  nobody  else  could  ever  get 
him."  Suddenly  she  burst  into  the  most  frightful  sobs,  and 
when,  at  last,  holding  her  close,  I  managed  to  quiet  her,  she 
muttered:  "I  talk  like  that.  And  all  the  time  I  know  .  .  . 


MRS.   VERNHAM  109 

things  can't  last  forever.  It  could  end  to-day.  Perhaps 
he's  writing  to  me  now  to  give  me  the  chuck.  I've  always 
thought  he  was  giving  me  the  chuck,  from  the  first  word,  as 
if  it  was  too  good  to  last." 

in 

Mabel  Thornton  did  not  help  me  much  in  my  loneliness. 
She  was  too  absorbed.  I  felt  a  complete  emptiness.  I  went 
to  Uncle  Victor  again,  and  at  last  borrowed  twenty  pounds 
from  him,  for  I  still  didn't  know  how  to  manage,  and  in  this 
bitter  weather  needed  some  new  warm  underclothes.  I 
hadn't  known  what  it  was  to  be  cold  before.  It  makes  one 
understand.  Now  and  then  I  look  at  women  loafing  in  Re- 
gent Street,  and  I  wonder  if  they're  cold.  It's  worse  than 
being  hungry.  It  gets  you  all  over.  And  when  you  are,  as 
I  was,  marooned  in  a  little  room,  you  feel  ready  for  anything. 
Most  people  aren't  marooned;  they've  got  somewhere  to 
go,  friends  of  their  own  kind;  they  can  go  and  sit  in  a  warm 
room  where  people  chat  and  have  tea.  I  couldn't  do  that; 
Monica  had  shown  me  that.  I  hadn't  the  clothes,  the  habits; 
I  couldn't  humiliate  myself  by  mixing  with  them.  I  hadn't 
the  time  for  tea  parties,  the  money  for  theaters;  this  meant 
new  friends  and  I  hadn't  got  them  yet.  It  makes  one  under- 
stand. No  wonder  I  wanted  to  go  to  dinner  with  Philip 
Vernham,  even  though  this  compromised  me  into  something 
I  didn't  want.  Just  to  sit  at  a  meal  with  somebody  who's 
friendly,  to  experience  light,  flowers,  music,  admiration. 
Instead  of  boiling  one's  kettle  on  one's  grate  and  reading 
in  the  evening  paper  descriptions  of  the  Chelsea  Arts  Ball. 
Something  was  breaking  me,  something  different  from  what 
was  breaking  Mabel  as  she  stirred  her  fire  on  the  other  side 
of  the  wall.  Her  troubles  didn't  help  me,  for  the  miseries  of 
others  do  not  ease  our  own.  The  thing  that  possessed  her 
was  killing  her;  but  nothing  held  me  at  all,  and  I  thought 
to  die  of  that. 


Chapter  V 
Between  Two  Showers 


I  WAS  walking  up  Regent  Street,  just  after  half  past  ten, 
and  was  nearing  the  end  of  my  energy.  I  had  a  sense  of 
futility.  I  wasn't  doing  anything;  I  was  just  being,  and 
snip,  snip,  snip,  went  the  days  of  my  life.  It  had  been  an 
awful  Saturday.  During  the  past  three  months,  and  particu- 
larly during  the  last  two,  my  parents  had  pressed  me  to  come 
back.  Mamma  had  written  tearful  letters,  in  which  she 
recalled  her  happiness  twenty  years  ago,  when  the  patter  of 
little  feet  was  heard  in  the  nursery.  This  irritated  me.  One 
didn't  hear  the  patter  of  little  feet  at  Ciber  Court.  The 
walls  were  too  thick.  Mamma  was  so  irritating  in  those 
moods.  She  made  out  a  bill  against  one's  emotions.  Yet  I 
felt  a  beast,  and  a  beast  again  when  I  lunched  with  papa, 
who'd  come  up  for  the  day.  He  behaved  like  a  magistrate 
pointing  out  to  a  young  woman  the  grave  consequences  of 
the  course  she  was  taking.  We  nearly  quarreled;  if  it 
hadn't  been  at  Claridge's  we  would  certainly  have  quarreled. 
I  grew  rather  rude  at  the  end.  "  The  sooner  everybody  under- 
stands that  I'm  not  going  to  be  interfered  with,  the  better." 
As  papa  did  not  respond  to  this  defiance,  I  recalled  that  I 
badly  wanted  an  allowance  now,  so  grew  milder.  "Of 
course,  it's  not  nice  being  hard  up.  I  know  it's  got  to  be 
faced,  still,  there  it  is.  I'm  poor,  and  it  can't  be  helped." 
Unfortunately  papa  did  not  rise,  not  that  he  was  unkind, 
but  ideas  did  not  travel  very  quickly  in  his  brain.  I  suppose 
he  must  have  forgotten,  for  I  did  not  get  the  allowance. 
We  had  tournedos,  though,  much  nicer  than  the  ABC 
steak  pudding. 


BETWEEN  TWO  SHOWERS  111 

Indirect  pressure  arose  from  these  letters  and  this  inter- 
view. Thus,  on  the  Saturday  afternoon  I  had  been  to  tea 
with  Aunt  Augusta,  who  gave  me  a  good  talking-to.  My 
ingratitude,  my  hard  heart,  my  probable  immorality,  all  this 
streamed  on  me  before  and  during  tea.  I  had  to  get  away 
almost  by  force,  for  Aunt  Augusta  held  on  to  me  so  vigor- 
ously that  I  wondered  whether  I  might  be  kidnaped.  Aunt 
Augusta  made  one  realize  what  a  beautiful  thing  it  is  to  be 
free.  But  free  to  do  what?  That  evening  I  was  coming 
back  from  Mrs.  Vernham's  lecture  to  the  Sappho  Club. 
The  poor  dear  had  been  lecturing  on  love  to  a  large  number 
of  females  who  looked  as  if  a  little  practical  demonstration 
would  have  been  worth  a  ton  of  Mrs.  Vernham's  theory; 
poor  little  spinsters,  widows  who  had  seen  better  days,  and 
middle-aged  wives  who  preferred  a  lecture  to  their  fireside. 
It  made  one  gasp,  all  this  talk  about  pure  love,  and  holy 
love,  and  mystical  love,  and  respect,  and  esteem.  As  I 
walked  home,  picking  my  way  over  the  muddy  pavement, 
I  wondered  what  they'd  have  said  if  Mabel  Thornton  had 
put  her  point  of  view.  But  I  was  very  unhappy,  though  I 
smiled. 

These  gratuitous  entertainments!  I  had  left  behind  the 
blazing  theaters  where  thousands  of  people  were  seeing 
"Hullo,  America!"  and  "Yes,  Uncle."  I  was  walking  home, 
and  now  it  was  beginning  to  rain.  Somehow,  I  didn't  care; 
my  coat  and  skirt  were  too  old  to  hurt  much,  and  so  I  walked 
on  through  the  light  shower,  among  the  scattered  passers-by, 
the  couples  that  sought  refuge  in  doorways.  The  rain  grew 
heavier,  and  though  I  like  to  feel  it  on  my  face,  I  found  the 
shower  too  heavy,  and  so  stopped  at  Swallow  Street  to  take 
shelter  under  the  arch.  After  a  moment  I  saw  that  a  young 
woman  was  considering  me.  She  was  small,  very  white- 
faced,  with  dark  eyes.  She  was  muffled  up  in  a  black  coat, 
and  interested  me  because  I  perceived  round  her  neck  an 
unexpected  toby  frill.  She  looked  such  a  little  Quaker. 
As  the  rain  went  on,  heavier  and  heavier,  I  flung  her  a  little 
smile,  as  one  does  when  something  dramatic  happens,  and 
said,  "It's  coming  down  heavily,  isn't  it?" 


112  URSULA   TRENT 

She  gave  me  a  frightened  look.  "Yes,"  she  said,  "it's 
horrid  weather."  She  spoke  carefully,  rather  mincing. 
She  couldn't  be  a  Sister  of  Mercy,  but  she  might  be  expending 
grave  counsel  and  kind  words  in  some  cause  of  rescue.  As 
the  rain  came  down,  violent  now,  decrepitating  almost  like 
hail,  we  began  to  talk.  After  a  while  she  said,  meditatively: 

"One  doesn't  have  much  luck  in  winter,  does  one?" 

"Luck?"  I  said,  puzzled. 

"Yes.     They  aren't  larky  when  it's  cold,  are  they?" 

I  was  silent.  The  word  "larky"  seemed  odd  on  those 
precise  lips,  and  the  idea  of  "luck"  muddled  me.  For- 
tunately she  went  on: 

"And  it's  so  bad  for  one's  clothes,  this  weather.  If  one 
goes  round  to  the  Hotel  Vesuvius  one's  got  to  have  an 
evening  frock,  and,  after  all,  if  one  doesn't  get  off,  one  has 
to  pay  for  one's  drinks." 

Suddenly  I  understood  her,  for  I'd  heard  of  the  Hotel 
Vesuvius.  I  had  a  vision  of  the  market  place,  little  tables, 
strident  women,  gross  men. 

"Oh,"  I  said,  uncertainly,  "yes,  of  course.  It  didn't 
strike  me." 

She  looked  at  me  suspiciously.  "I  say,  how  long  have 
you  been  on  the  game?" 

I  guessed  at  her  meaning.  "Oh,  I'm  sorry."  Then,  plung- 
ing, "I'm  a  shorthand  writer." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  the  little  woman,  in  the  coldest  voice. 
"I  didn't  know  you  were  straight.  Not  that  work  means 
anything.  There's  many  a  girl  in  the  City  comes  down  to 
Piccadilly  for  a  short  time  now  and  again.  She's  got  to  earn 
a  bit  like  the  rest  of  us.  Still,  I  oughtn't  to  talk  to  you." 
She  peered  at  the  rain,  made  as  if  to  go  out. 

I  didn't  like  that.  It  was  as  if  from  the  altitudes  of  her 
profession  she  looked  down  upon  me.  Certainly  I  was 
unadventurous. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  I  asked,  in  an  irritated  tone.  "  Why  shouldn't 
you  talk  to  me?" 

"Well,  you  don't  want  to  talk  to  me,  do  you?  You  know 
what  I  am.  Women  like  you  don't  want  to  know  my  sort. 


BETWEEN  TWO  SHOWERS  113 

My  sort  can  only  know  each  other,  except  men,  of 
course." 

I  was  awkward.  I  didn't  know  how  to  talk  to  this  kind  of 
woman,  and  I  felt  I  ought  to  talk  to  her  in  a  special  way,  just 
as  one  has  special  ways  for  children,  invalids,  lunatics.  She 
couldn't  be  an  ordinary  human  being.  So  I  floundered, 
trying  to  be  polite. 

"I  suppose,"  I  said,  "it's  a  very  interesting  life?"  Just 
as  I  might  have  said  to  an  engineer  that  building  bridges 
must  be  great  fun. 

"Interesting?"  said  the  woman.  "Oh,  well,  one  has  one's 
ups  and  downs;  one  has  variety.  One's  got  to  do  something, 
hasn't  one,  to  keep  alive?  Of  course,  I  don't  know  why  one 
wants  to  keep  alive,  but  one  does."  She  spoke  so  well  that 
I  couldn't  help  wondering  why  she  hadn't  found  something 
better  to  do.  It  didn't  occur  to  me  to  consider  whether  I 
was  doing  better.  "Well,"  she  said,  looking  out  again  at 
the  shower  that  was  dying  down,  "I  must  be  going." 

Suddenly  I  conceived  an  immense  desire  to  know  this 
woman.  There  she  was,  after  all,  with  eyes,  and  arms,  and 
legs  like  everybody  else,  saying  the  same  things,  and  living 
this  extraordinary  life.  I  wanted  to  know  just  how  she'd 
come  to  it  and  what  it  was  like.  So  I  said,  "Look  here, 
you  didn't  mean  what  you  said  about  women  of  my  sort?" 

"Mean  that  they  don't  want  to  know  girls  like  me?" 

"Yes.     I'd  like  to." 

She  stared  at  me.  "What's  your  little  game?"  Then 
she  smiled.  "I  don't  suppose  you're  up  to  any  game,  after 
all,  only  one  gets  suspicious.  You  look  a  kid." 

"I'm  twenty -five." 

"  And  you've  kept  straight !    Well,  I'm  damned ! " 

It  was  startling.  She  had  said  it  so  coolly  and  casually, 
as  I  should  have  said:  "I'm  surprised." 

"I  rather  like  you,"  she  remarked.  "My  name's  Vera 
Westley.  Come  and  have  tea  with  me  to-morrow."  She 
gave  me  her  address,  and,  carefully  opening  her  umbrella, 
went  out  into  the  thinning  shower. 


114  URSULA   TRENT 


I  was  very  excited.  I  was  on  the  edge  of  adventurous 
intercourse.  I  was  doing  something  that  no  Trent  woman 
had  ever  done  before.  (Though  I  suppose  that  my  grand- 
children will  do  things  which  they  think  no  Trent  woman 
has  ever  done  before,  and  I  shall  have  done  most  of  them.) 
As  I  walked  home,  I  plotted  out  questions  to  put  to  Vera. 
I  would  find  out  how  she  began  and  how  she  lived.  I  would 
have  a  peep  into  the  underworld.  It  would  be  like  an  article 
in  the  Sunday  papers.  No  doubt  this  excitement  made  my 
faculties  sharp,  for,  as  I  went  to  bed,  I  heard  sobs  in  the  next 
room.  I  listened.  No,  there  was  nothing.  But  as  I  got 
into  bed  again  I  felt  sure  that  I  heard  regular  sobbing.  It 
must  be  Mabel.  For  a  moment  I  hesitated.  After  all,  it 
was  her  grief,  and  it  would  be  impertinent  to  interfere.  It 
isn't  decent  to  interfere  with  people;  that's  why  one  lets 
them  suffer.  But  after  a  moment  I  couldn't  bear  it,  jumped 
out  of  bed,  and,  in  my  dressing  gown,  went  into  Mabel's 
room.  It  was  quite  dark,  and  only  as  my  eyes  grew  used  to 
the  darkness  did  I  see  that  the  bed  was  empty.  She  was  not 
home  yet,  and  a  sort  of  terror  came  over  me  in  the  dark, 
so  much  so  that  I  thought  I  could  still  hear  the  sobs.  I 
stayed  there  for  a  moment.  I  glimpsed  in  the  middle  of  the 
bedspread  a  pair  of  muddy  boots  which  Mabel  must  have 
flung  down  there.  It  was  horrible,  this  suggestion  of  neglect. 
She  didn't  care  whether  her  muddy  boots  lay  on  her  bed- 
spread, and,  though  I  laughed  at  my  illusion,  I  was  horrified, 
as  if  this  queer  thing  were  true,  as  if  still  I  could  hear  her 
crying,  far  away  in  some  secret  region  of  my  own  sympathy. 

But  I  didn't  think  much  more  of  Mabel,  as  I  went  to  sleep. 
The  morrow  was  too  exciting.  Vera  received  me  in  a  small 
flat  in  Gerrard  Street,  which  comprised  a  hall,  as  large  as  a 
boot  cupboard,  a  bathroom,  and  a  large  bedroom.  She 
received  me  there.  "I  hope  you  won't  mind  having  tea  in 
the  bedroom,"  she  remarked,  quietly,  "that's  the  only  room 
I  use."  I  did  not  reply;  her  quiet  brutality  frightened  me. 


BETWEEN  TWO  SHOWERS  115 

She  was  as  curious  as  I  had  hoped,  embarrassingly  curious. 
So,  as  we  sat  down  to  tea,  I  grew  blunt. 

"How  did  you  come  to  take  up  this  life?" 

"Well,  I  had  to  make  a  living.  I  was  a  governess  hi  an 
English  family  in  Rome.  My  employer  took  a  fancy  to  me. 
So  did  I,  by  the  way.  He  was  a  nice  fellow.  That  started 
me,  for  I  got  found  out.  There  wasn't  much  chance  of  a 
good  reference,  so  I  went  gay."  She  smiled.  She  had  ugly 
little  teeth.  "It  seems  so  long  ago,"  she  said,  sentimentally. 
"  He  set  me  up  in  a  flat  on  the  other  side  of  the  Tiber.  Happy 
days!" 

"But,"  I  gasped,  "you  don't  seem  to  have  anything  against 
the  man  who  .  .  .  who,  after  all,  was  responsible." 

"Why  should  I?  One  has  to  make  a  start.  I  wasn't  likely 
to  get  married,  and  this  is  quite  as  good  (try  the  crumpets) 
as  work  in  an  office.  You  don't  have  such  a  fine  time  your- 
self, do  you?  What  are  you?  Bank?  Insurance?" 

"No.     I'm  secretary  to  a  novelist." 

"Oh,  how  sweet  that  must  be!  They  have  such  lovely 
ideas,  don't  they?" 

I  giggled,  thinking  of  The  Rose  of  Yesteryear.  She  mis- 
understood me  and  smiled  pallidly.  "With  a  face  like 
yours,  I  suppose  he's  after  you?  You  straight  girls,  I  know. 
You're  straight,  but  only  because  you  keep  about  a  quarter 
of  an  inch  off  the  crooked.  Right  up  to  the  limit." 

"No,  she's  a  lady  novelist." 

"Oh,  how  dull!    I  hate  women.    Don't  you?" 

"No.     Why  should  I?" 

"They  all  scratch  one  another's  eyes  out  and  go  after  one 
another's  men." 

"Well,"  I  said  with  a  certain  solemnity.  "I  shouldn't 
think  you,  of  all  people,  would  have  to  thank  men  for  much." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.    They  aren't  bad.     They  pay." 

"But  you  can't  love  any  of  these  men,  can  you?" 

The  large  whites  of  her  eyes  grew  larger.  "Love  'em!  I 
don't  know  what  you  mean.  A  man  gives  me  money — I 
love  him." 

I  was  afraid  of  growing  sentimental,  so  would  not  discuss 


116  URSULA   TRENT 

love,  and  asked  whether  the  men  who  came  to  see  her  were 
very  repulsive. 

"Well,"  she  said,  judicially,  "one  has  to  take  the  rough 
with  the  smooth.  One  gets  all  sorts — some  sober,  some  tight. 
You  wouldn't  believe  it,  but  there  are  lots  of  men  who  have 
to  get  tight  before  they  can  go  on  the  razzle.  Lots  of  men 
are  moral,  you  know,  and  they  can't  get  shut  of  their  morals 
unless  they  get  tight." 

"Dreadful!"  I  said.    "A  drunken  man!" 

She  smiled.  "  Drunk  or  sober,  they  behave  much  the  same 
in  the  end.  When  they're  tight  they  pay  better,  because 
they're  feeling  grand  and  want  to  show  off  their  money. 
Of  course,  they're  troublesome,  in  a  way.  They  make  a  row 
sometimes,  and  one  can't  afford  rows  in  this  business.  The 
landlord  daren't  allow  it.  Or  they  may  break  something 
or  knock  you  about.  They're  a  nuisance,  really." 

I  stared  at  her,  this  little,  pale,  quiet,  respectable-looking 
woman,  talking  of  her  clients  like  a  stockbroker.  She  was 
quite  unconscious  of  me. 

"The  old  ones  aren't  bad,"  she  murmured,  as  if  to  herself. 

"Oh,"  I  said,  and  she  noticed  my  shudder. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "they've  got  their  points,  you  know, 
and  don't  give  much  trouble  unless  they're  fanciful.  There 
are  only  two  sorts — the  funny  ones  and  the  sloppy  ones.  If 
one  talks  to  them  about  one's  childhood,  they  always  like  it; 
it  makes  them  feel  up-to-date.  The  good  business  I've  done 
by  remembering  the  Queen's  Jubilee!  I  was  five  then  .  .  . 
well,  you  wouldn't  believe  it.  I'm  thinking  of  learning  a  bit 
about  Gladstone  and  Disraeli." 

I  laughed.  Her  matter-of-fact  way  amused  me;  I  was 
feeling  easier  with  her,  so  I  said:  "I  suppose,  all  the  same, 
you  often  come  across  a  nice  young  man." 

She  looked  at  me  half  contemptuously.  "Young  men?" 
she  said.  "  Anybody  can  see  you're  not  on  the  game.  Young 
men,  most  of  'em,  have  no  money.  And  the  fuss  they  make. 
Full  of  high  spirits,  want  you  to  go  to  dinner  at  a  place  where 
the  band's  fairly  howling.  Then  on  to  a  music  hall  where 
there's  another  band.  Then  to  supper.  Then  they  make 


BETWEEN  TWO  SHOWERS  117 

you  dance  for  three  hours  at  a  place  where  there's  a  band 
that's  still  louder.  And  then,  when  you're  about  crumpled 
up,  you've  got  to  be  cheery  and  make  them  realize  that  you 
never  loved  until  you  met  them,  because  they're  different." 
She  sneered.  "Different!  They  all  want  to  be  different,  and 
they're  all  alike." 

"I'm  sorry,"  I  said.  "I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  question 
you.  Are  you  sorry  sometimes  that  you  took  up  this 
life?" 

"One's  always  sorry  for  what  one's  done,  I  suppose.  One 
man  lives  in  Devonshire  and  wishes  he  lived  in  town;  if  a 
fellow's  a  doctor  he  always  seems  to  wish  he  was  an  engineer. 
We're  the  same.  Still,  it's  better  than  being  an  old  maid." 

I  did  not  reply,  for  I  wondered  whether  I  agreed  with  her. 
It  was  impossible  for  me  to  imagine  myself  as  an  old  maid, 
though  lots  of  women  end  like  that.  So  Vera  went  on 
talking  for  a  long  time,  and  I  wondered  how  she  could  make 
a  living.  She  was  not  very  pretty,  slim,  weak,  very  small- 
boned.  She  stooped  a  little,  and  did  not  look  healthy.  It 
was,  I  suppose,  those  immense  light-brown  eyes;  I  saw  now 
that  they  were  light,  rather  like  topazes  set  in  white  enamel. 
They  made  her  look  humble,  sorrowful.  She  appealed.  I 
was  sorry  for  her  already,  I  don't  know  why,  for  she  was 
cheerful  enough,  talking  of  theaters,  light  music,  days  on  the 
river.  I  thought  it  was  because  she  suggested  a  secret.  She 
seemed  bruised,  or  indecisive,  or  faintly  disappointed. 
Later  I  asked  her  whether  she  was  unhappy.  She  denied  it, 
yet  I  couldn't  believe  her.  I  came  to  think  that  she  was 
unhappy  without  knowing  why,  and  grew  still  sorrier  for  her. 
She  was  all  softness.  When  I  pointed  this  out  she  replied: 

**Oh,  I'm  not  so  soft  as  you  think.  A  cat  is  soft  until  you 
try  to  hold  it.  I  know  what  you  think.  You  wonder  how  I 
manage  men.  Well,  of  course,  you're  straight,  and  so  you 
don't  know.  I'm  a  little  thing;  they  like  it.  I  look  as  if  I'd 
been  knocked  about;  it  makes  them  want  to  knock  me  about 
some  more,  and  they're  willing  to  pay  for  it.  Men  like  being 
beastly  to  women;  it  makes  them  feel  big  and  strong;  it 
flatters  them.  Or  if  they're  sloppy  themselves,  they  get  still 


118  URSULA   TRENT 

sloppier.  A  man  gave  me  an  extra  pound  the  other  day  to 
make  me  laugh.  Of  course,  I  laughed.  It  was  worth  it." 

As  the  afternoon  passed  I  told  her  a  very  little  about  my- 
self, of  course  hiding  my  origins.  I  couldn't  be  quite  frank, 
and  let  her  think  that  my  father  was  a  shopkeeper  in  the 
country.  This  suddenly  revealed  her  dreams.  I  didn't 
realize  she  had  dreams  like  the  rest  of  us. 

"I  suppose  I'd  like  to  be  straight  and  fall  in  love  with  a 
man,  and  have  a  nice  little  house  in  the  country,  with  two 
children,  not  more,  and  a  dog."  She  looked  out  vaguely 
from  those  immense  eyes.  "  I  shouldn't  mind  if  he  was  poor, 
and  I'd  never  flirt.  Of  course,  if  I  could  marry  a  rich  man 
that  I  didn't  care  for,  I'd  have  lovely  clothes.  I'd  dress  in 
the  Oriental  style,  at  Poiret's.  I'd  like  to  have  a  green  dress 
with  the  top  crossing  over  from  right  to  left,  with  a  draped 
skirt.  I'd  flirt  a  good  deal,  of  course,  but  I  wouldn't  do 
anything  wrong." 

"You'd  have  a  lovely  house?"  I  said,  humoring  her. 

"Oh,  a  lovely  house,"  she  said,  raptly.  "I'd  furnish  my 
drawing-room  in  the  Oriental  style,  you  know,  with  some 
scent  burning  hi  a  bowl,  and  a  big  divan,  and  lots  of  cushions, 
and  curtains,  and  thick  Persian  rugs." 

"That  sounds  very  passionate." 

"I'm  as  passionate  as  anybody.  Of  course,  I'd  have  to 
be  careful  then.  I  wouldn't  do  anything  wrong.  I'd  have 
lots  of  pictures.  I'd  like  to  have  a  picture  I  saw  of  cross- 
roads and  a  lot  of  trees,  and  the  moonlight  shining  through." 

"And  gallows  at  the  crossroads?" 

"No,  I  wouldn't;  I  don't  think  that  'd  be  at  all  nice. 
And  I'd  like  to  have  a  big  dog,  an  Irish  terrier,  to  keep  me 
company  and  to  prevent  men  talking  to  me  in  the  Park. 
I'd  call  him  Paddy." 

I  sighed.  I  was  sorry  for  her.  "Do  you  ever  dream  of 
these  things?" 

"Oh,  often.  I  like  to  sit  and  dream  and  think  that  a  rich 
man  is  proposing  to  me.  He's  not  very  nice  to  look  at,  of 
course,  but  he's  frightfully  rich.  I  sit  and  think  him  out. 
I  dress  him  up  in  a  suit  of  clothes  I've  seen  on  a  dummy  in 


BETWEEN  TWO  SHOWERS  119 

Bond  Street,  and  the  nicest  nose  and  mustache  I've  seen 
lately.  Only  he's  too  fat  and  he's  frightfully  in  love  with  me. 
Sometimes  I  make  out  it's  like  the  old  days,  like  the  days  of 
Charles  II,  and  he  goes  down  on  his  knees,  and  just  when 
I'm  going  to  accept  him,  with  his  money  and  all  his  castles, 
I  remember  somebody  else.  He's  poor,  but  I'm  very  much 
in  love  with  him.  So  I  make  a  beautiful  speech  to  the  rich 
man  and  tell  him  that  kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets." 

"And  then?" 

"Then  I  send  for  the  poor  man  and  we  go  out  together 
into  the  world.  It's  always  bad  weather,  you  know.  I  like 
a  snowstorm  best  for  that  sort  of  dream,  and  we're  so  happy. 
Of  course,  we  don't  stay  in  the  snowstorm.  It  ends  in  a  little 
cottage." 

"  I  wonder  if  you'll  ever  get  your  little  cottage." 

"One  never  knows.  One  gets  it  easier  this  way  than  by 
being  in  a  shop  and  saying,  'No,  ma'am,'  and  'Yes,  ma'am.* 
If  I've  got  to  make  up  to  somebody  it  'd  better  be  to  men. 
I've  prayed  to  St.  Anthony  to  send  me  a  nice  man,  only 
that's  silly  of  me,  because,  you  know,  St.  Anthony  only 
finds  the  things  one's  lost,  and  I  don't  know  the  saint  who 
gives  you  what  you  want  if  you've  never  had  it  before.  Do 
you?" 

I  smiled.    "I  don't  believe  in  the  saints,  I'm  afraid." 

"Don't  you?  You  should.  One  always  gets  what  one 
wants  if  one  prays  for  it,  only  it's  got  to  be  reasonable.  I 
prayed  because  I  couldn't  pay  my  rent  the  other  day,  and, 
would  you  believe  it,  a  man  rang  my  bell  by  mistake  and 
gave  me  ten  pounds." 

I  left  her  at  last.  She  was  not  at  all  the  courtesan  of 
fiction,  neither  flaunting,  nor  harsh,  nor  in  any  way  ashamed. 
She  accepted  her  life  as  calmly  as  does,  I  suppose,  the 
waitress  at  the  ABC.  Different  jobs,  that's  all.  And  I 
suddenly  asked  myself,  as  I  went  along  Marylebone  Road: 
"Is  she  any  worse  off  than  the  waitress  at  the  ABC?  than 
I?  She's  outcast  by  her  occupation,  I  by  my  poverty.  She 
wants  a  man  to  look  after  her;  I  want  a  man  to  marry  me. 
Virtue?  Yes,  here's  virtue."  I  laughed  aloud.  "It's  funny; 


120  URSULA   TRENT 

for  vice  the  world  will  give  you  anything  you  like,  if  you're 
clever,  and  for  virtue  it  '11  give  you  nothing  at  all." 

I  found  myself  dreaming  dreams  different  from  those  of 
Vera.  She  dreamt  of  security  and  respectability,  because 
those  were  not  in  her  world,  and  I,  established,  safe  in  my 
own  class,  dreamt  of  vice.  Vera  was  right.  A  doctor  always 
wishes  he'd  been  an  engineer.  But  a  doctor  was  quite  as  well 
off  as  an  engineer,  and  was  I  as  well  off  as  Vera?  My  dream 
denied  it,  for  I  saw  myself  now  at  the  famous  Hotel  Vesuvius, 
seated  at  a  little  table,  before  me  a  glass  of  creme  de  menthe. 
(I  wasn't  very  debauched  yet.)  I  was  wearing  a  flame- 
colored  evening  frock  without  a  back;  my  arms  were  bare 
except  for  a  bead  shoulder  strap  and  for  a  fatal  golden  snake 
with  ruby  eyes,  coiled  above  the  elbow.  Light  from  the 
chandelier,  abundant  but  rosy,  and  merciful.  Other  tables 
all  about  me,  and  other  women,  big-breasted  as  cockatoos, 
or  thin,  dark,  and  snaky,  and  little  women  with  minxish 
faces  and  fair  hair.  Before  me  a  large  man  in  evening 
clothes,  rather  coarse,  say  the  proprietor  of  many  cinemas, 
wearing  on  his  little  finger  a  diamond  as  big  as  the  Koh-i- 
noor.  In  my  dream  I  said  to  my  partner:  "Bob,  it's  late. 
Send  for  the  car." 

I  met  Mabel  on  the  stairs;  I  had  never  seen  her  face  so 
drawn,  her  eyes  so  starting.  She  grasped  me  by  the  arm, 
trying  to  explain,  and  failing. 

"I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it  ...  but  it's  driving  me 
crazy." 

"What  is  it?    What  is  it?"  I  asked. 

She  was  shivering  with  cold.  "Don't  let  me  go.  I  must 
see  him  to-night." 

I  could  hardly  understand.  Wnat  did  she  want?  I  took 
her  into  my  room  and  tried  to  make  her  comfortable,  though 
there  was  no  fire.  I  put  a  blanket  over  her,  and  she  lay 
there,  quiescent  for  a  while,  while  I  pretended  not  to  notice 
her,  changing  my  blouse  and  ordering  my  hair.  Suddenly 
she  said: 

"You're  very  kind  to  me,  Miss  Trent."  She  was  collected 
now.  "I'm  sorry  if  I've  been  silly,  only  sometimes  it's  too 


BETWEEN  TWO  SHOWERS  121 

much  for  one.  One  can't  live  alone,  and  men  drive  one  mad." 
She  paused.  My  mind  was  so  full  of  my  conversation  with 
Vera  that  I  replied: 

"The  women  who  are  ...  on  the  game,  they  seem  to  man- 
age men." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "they're  all  right.  They  don't  fall  in 
love.  Never  fall  in  love,  Miss  Trent;  it's  not  worth  it. 
Better  go  on  the  game,  as  you  say." 

I  turned  my  back  on  her,  for  I  was  still  shy.  "Sometimes 
I  think  of  doing  it  myself,"  I  murmured.  (What  had  hap- 
pened to  Ursula  Trent  of  Ciber  Court?  Can  loneliness  and 
poverty  change  one  so?) 

"Ah!  we  all  do  that,"  said  Mabel.  "If  you  did,  I  suppose 
I'd  be  envious."  But  at  once  she  returned  to  her  own  pre- 
occupation: "Thank  you  for  being  nice  to  me.  I  must  go 
now."  She  stood  up,  looked  into  the  glass.  "Heavens! 
what  a  fright  I  look,  and  I've  got  to  meet  Jim."  At  once 
her  face  grew  convulsed.  She  seized  my  hand.  "He's  given 
me  the  chuck,"  she  said,  in  a  strangled  voice.  "I  wrote  to 
him.  I  must  see  him  again.  Just  to  try."  And  with  a 
sudden  hoarse  ejaculation  that  sounded  like,  "Oh,  my  God!" 
she  ran  out  of  the  room,  crying. 

I  am  ashamed  to  write  it  down,  but  I  did  not  think  of  her 
very  much  that  evening.  Could  I  go  on  the  game?  A  sort 
of  animal  shrinking  possessed  me.  As  I  sketched  myself — 
frocks,  methods,  furnishings — I  knew  intimately  that  I 
wouldn't  do  it,  that  I  couldn't  do  it,  that  something  tradi- 
tional held  me  back.  One  didn't  do  those  things.  To  be 
touched!  The  idea  made  me  sick.  I  despised  myself  for 
this  weakness,  so  much  so  that  when  at  last  I  went  to  bed 
I  cried.  I  was  weak;  I  couldn't  bear  to  face  my  own  life; 
I'd  just  muddle  along  like  this  and  be  an  old  maid. 

ra 

I  found  myself  awake,  horribly  awake.  It  was  the  middle 
of  the  night  and  I  sat  up  with  distended  eyes.  I  could  hear 
nothing,  but  I  knew  that  something  had  suddenly  aroused 


122  URSULA   TRENT 

me.  As  I  sat  for  a  moment,  a  cold  sweat  growing  upon  my 
face,  I  thought  I  heard  something.  No.  I  was  wrong.  A 
motor  horn  tooted.  I  heard  the  sound  again.  A  sudden 
horror  made  me  leap  out  of  bed,  and  run,  just  as  I  was,  in 
my  nightgown,  one  hand  against  my  breast,  across  the 
landing  and  into  the  next  room.  It  was  entirely  dark,  and 
I  was  so  terrified  that  I  nearly  screamed  as  I  felt  on  the  man- 
telpiece for  the  matches  and  knocked  over  an  ornament. 
At  last  I  lit  a  match  and  held  it  up.  Just  long  enough  to  see 
Mabel  Thornton  lying  on  the  bed,  half  undressed.  She  lay 
on  her  side,  quivering  a  little.  I  had  time  to  see  the  long 
black  handle  of  the  kitchen  knife  that  was  buried  in  her 
breast. 

I  don't  know  how  long  I  stood  there,  as  if  I  was  frozen  stiff. 
A  sort  of  helplessness  was  upon  me,  though  I  knew  that  she 
was  not  dead.  It  sounds  so  easy  to  go  up  to  something  mor- 
tally hurt  and  handle  it;  but  it's  not  like  having  it  lying 
prepared  in  a  white  bed.  Quite  as  suddenly  my  activity 
returned,  and,  with  hands  that  ceased  to  tremble,  I  lit  an- 
other match  and  then  the  gas.  She  had  not  moved;  still 
she  lay  on  her  right  side,  propped  up  by  the  knife  upon  which 
she  had  speared  herself.  With  a  last  shudder  I  slipped  my 
hand  under  her  right  shoulder  and,  gathering  both  legs  on 
my  left  forearm,  slowly  turned  her  upon  her  back.  She 
neither  moved  nor  groaned,  but  only  quivered  in  my  grasp, 
like  a  fledgling  bird.  I  took  the  pillow  away  to  keep  her  flat, 
and,  with  nervous  care,  slipped  the  edge  under  her  left 
shoulder  to  relieve  the  heart.  Then  I  felt  helpless.  Get  a 
doctor,  of  course,  but  for  one  moment  I  felt  a  wild  desire  to 
draw  out  the  knife.  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  that  handle  stick- 
ing out,  and  a  little  of  the  blade,  upon  that  pale  olive,  smooth 
flesh.  Hysterically,  I  wanted  to  tear  out  the  thing  that  was 
killing  her.  Fortunately  my  nurse's  training  saved  me. 
There  was? very  little  blood  round  the  wound;  obviously  she 
had  missed  the  heart.  There  must  be  hemorrhage  in  the 
lung;  indeed,  a  little  blood  was  already  trickling  from  her 
mouth,  and  her  pulse  was  getting  faint. 

I  was  quite  cool  now.    Still  careless  of  my  costume,  I  ran 


BETWEEN  TWO  SHOWERS  123 

down  to  the  basement,  where  Mrs.  Witham  slept.  I  had  a 
lot  of  trouble  waking  her,  and  more  in  making  her  under- 
stand. I  practically  dressed  her  myself,  and  pushed  her  out. 
The  only  thing  she  said  was,  again  and  again:  "Oh  dearie 
me!  That  this  should  happen  in  my  house."  Except  once, 
"I  never  liked  that  young  lady." 

When  I  went  up  again,  Mabel  was  still  alive;  indeed,  her 
eyes  were  open,  and  as  she  saw  me  she  tried  to  say  some- 
thing. I  bent  down  and  listened,  but  her  voice  was  only  a 
rustle.  I  stood  by  her  side  in  horrible  helplessness.  I  could 
do  nothing  but  only  watch  her  agony.  And  it  went  on,  this 
agony.  I  don't  know  whether  she  was  in  pain,  for  her 
features  showed  nothing,  and  the  worst  of  it  was  that  now 
and  then  she  blinked  as  if  to  make  me  come  to  her,  yet  her 
voice  was  only  that  rustle.  I  had  covered  her  up  with  a 
blanket,  and  could  not  look  at  that  elevated  point  made 
under  the  woolliness  by  the  knife.  At  last  the  doctor  came, 
a  sleepy,  rather  bored,  dead-tired  young  man.  After  thirty 
seconds  he  rushed  out  of  the  house  to  fetch  an  ice  bag. 
Agony!  How  long  would  it  take  him  at  this  time  of  the 
night?  I  had  a  vision  of  Mrs.  Witham  peering  in  at  the 
door,  on  tiptoe,  as  if  afraid  of  waking  Mabel,  or  as  if  in 
church,  and  whispering,  "Did  he  take  it  out?" 

I  did  not  reply,  and  for  a  moment  I  saw  her  gloat  over  that 
elevated  point  under  the  blanket.  I  felt  that  she  would  never 
go  away;  she  was  as  if  fascinated.  At  last,  half  angrily,  I 
motioned  her  to  go.  As  she  closed  the  door,  Mabel  at  last 
managed  to  speak.  I  bent  down,  my  ear  to  her  mouth. 

"Miss  Trent ...  he  gave  me  the  chuck." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  know,  I  know.  Don't  think  of  that; 
you'll  be  all  right  soon." 

"He  gave  me  the  chuck,"  she  whispered  again. 

I  said  nothing.  What  could  I  say?  All  these  weeks,  I 
suppose,  she'd  been  trying  to  communicate  to  me  all  he* 
anguish,  trying  to  find  sympathy.  It  can't  be  done;  human 
beings  are  like  ships  flying  the  S.  O.  S.,  and  hardly  anybody 
ever  reads  the  signal. 

Again:  "Miss  Trent  .  .  .  never  fall  in  love Flirt." 


124  URSULA   TRENT 

I  was  holding  her  hand.  I  bent  down  and  very  softly 
kissed  her  on  the  mouth.  I  found  my  eyes  streaming.  I 
remember  seizing  a  handful  of  my  nightgown  and  drying  my 
eyes  with  it.  When  at  last  I  could  see  her  again,  a  new  com- 
posure had  come  over  her  face.  Already  the  jaw  was  drop- 
ping a  little,  but  there  was  no  expression  in  the  revulsed, 
open  eyes.  I  heard  the  doctor  on  the  stairs,  carrying  the 
ice  bag,  swearing,  I  think.  It  was  over.  She  was  dead.  I 
went  over  to  the  window,  where,  to  my  amazement,  a  pallid 
dawn  was  breaking  in  the  grayness  of  the  sky.  Almost  at 
once  a  shower  began  to  fall,  to  fall  at  first  gently,  as  the  step- 
ping of  a  bird,  then  more  sharply,  and  at  last  decrepitating 
upon  the  zinc  roofs.  I  thought,  "A  soul's  gone  through  the 
ram." 


Chapter  VI 
After  the  Inquest 


THERE  is  something  comic  about  inquests.  Everybody's 
so  grave  over  the  incident  that  has  made  an  end  to  the 
life  Doctor  Upnor  called  "merely  a  mood  of  matter."  The 
jury,  especially,  is  so  funny;  these  solid  tradesmen,  rather 
fishy-eyed,  some  annoyed  at  being  taken  away  from  their 
business,  most  of  them  important  because  sharing  in  tragedy. 
I  think  they  were  very  keen  to  view  the  body,  though  they 
tried  to  look  judicial.  I  know  that  I  heard  one  whisper  to 
the  others  as  they  came  back,  that  it  was  a  pity  such  a  fine 
young  woman  should  end  like  that.  Poor  Mabel!  Her  last 
compliment. 

But  there  are  other  elements,  horrible  elements.  I  hated 
the  coroner,  a  little  rat-faced  man  with  whiskers.  A  starved 
little  man,  the  sort  of  little  man  his  wife  has  never  liked. 
Mabel  couldn't  go  to  her  grave  quietly.  The  coroner  wanted 
to  know  all  about  her. 

"Her  people  live  in  Norfolk?  Why  did  she  leave  them? 
Been  in  several  situations?  Did  she  lead  a  decent  life?" 
He  was  considering  the  medical  evidence.  Everybody 
looked  grave  over  that. 

Mrs.  Witham  was  bullied.  "You  say  she  never  brought 
men  to  the  house?  Am  I  to  believe  you  knew  nothing  of  the 
intrigue  the  deceased  was  carrying  on?  With  this  Mr.  .  .  . 
James  Ellwood?  Come  along,  my  good  woman,  you  must 
have  known  something  about  it." 

"None  of  my  young  ladies  have  ever  brought  gentlemen 
to  the  house,  sir." 

"I'm  not  asking  you  that.  I'm  suggesting  to  you  that  you 
must  have  seen  Mr.  Ellwood  sometime." 


126  URSULA   TRENT 

"None  of  my  young  ladies  ever  bring  gentlemen  to  the 
house,"  she  went  on,  obstinately.  He  dismissed  her  at  last. 
Then  he  put  me  through  it.  "Did  Miss  Thornton  confide  in 
me  about  Mr.  Ellwood?  Had  I  seen  the  letters  which  had 
been  found  in  the  room  of  the  deceased?  Had  she  ever  re- 
ferred to  suicide?  Did  she  seem  afraid  of  Mr.  Ellwood? 
Had  Mr.  Ellwood  ever  threatened  her?"  I  gathered  at  last 
that  the  coroner  was  trying  to  make  a  murder  case  against 
the  young  fellow,  whom  I  could  hardly  bear  to  look  at.  The 
coroner  returned  to  the  medical  evidence,  worrying  it  like  a  rat. 
Mabel  lived  an  improper  life,  Mabel  wasn't  virtuous,  Mabel,  etc. 

It  was  horrible  to  see  Jim  give  his  evidence.  He  was  a 
good-looking  young  man  of  about  twenty-six,  fair,  rather 
short,  but  neat  and  muscular,  well  dressed  in  blue  serge. 
He  wore  an  air  of  self-complacency,  tempered  that  morning 
by  a  nervousness  with  which  mixed  a  little  pride.  He  was 
being  a  hero.  After  all,  the  girl  had  killed  herself  for  his  sake. 
But  I  thought  I  would  cry  again  when  I  saw  how  the  hair 
sloped  away  behind  his  ears;  Mabel  had  spoken  of  that. 
The  dead  hand  had  caressed  that  smooth,  fair  hair.  The 
coroner  treated  him  brutally. 

"How  long  have  you  known  the  deceased?" 

"Two  years." 

"Why  didn't  you  many  her?" 

"Didn't  want  to." 

"You  think  it  a  proper  thing  for  a  man  to  have  irregular 
relations  with  a  girl  he  might  marry?" 

No  reply.  "You  had  broken  off  relations  with  her,  hadn't 
you?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  she  threaten  suicide?  " 

"Yes." 

"That  didn't  change  your  mind,  did  it?" 

Jim  grew  aggressive  and  twirled  his  little  fair  mustache. 
"Oh,  well,  sir,  women  always  talk  of  suicide,  but  they  never 
do  it." 

"You  mean  that  many  other  women  have  said  these  things 
to  you?"  Jim  half  smiled.  "And  you  didn't  think  the 


AFTER  THE  INQUEST  127 

deceased  would,  as  you  put  it,  do  it?    Well,  never  mind  that. 
This  is  not  a  court  of  morals.    Was  the  deceased  a  good  girl 
when  you  first  met  her?" 
"I  don't  know." 

"Don't  talk  nonsense.  Answer  the  question." 
Jim  was  exasperated.  "I  don't  see  that  it's  got  to  do  with 
the  case,"  he  said,  sulkily.  The  coroner  was  embarrassed. 
He  knew  it  hadn't,  but  he  wanted  to  go  on;  to  adjourn  the 
case  and  have  it  all  over  again;  to  see  his  name  in  the  paper; 
to  have  his  remarks  printed;  to  see  columns  of  his  case  in 
The  News  of  the  World;  to  be  a  big  man;  to  dress  up  as 
Justice  Darling;  to  wallow  in  this  mixture  of  sex  and  blood. 
But  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  I  had  heard  Mabel  groan 
and  gone  in  at  once;  Mrs.  Witham  identified  the  knife. 
There  was  no  chance  to  commit  Ellwood  for  murder.  All 
the  jury  had  to  do,  after  returning  a  verdict  of  suicide  during 
temporary  insanity,  was  to  add  a  rider  censuring  Jim.  We 
walked  out  together,  I  a  little  behind.  We  both  went  down 
Marylebone  Road;  as  we  approached  the  house  of  a  dentist, 
I  saw  a  pretty  housemaid  cleaning  the  brass  plate.  Then 
I  found  that  I  was  gaining  on  Jim,  for  he  was  walking  more 
slowly.  He  looked  at  the  girl  as  he  passed.  What  a  look  it 
must  have  been!  She  smiled.  He  hesitated,  walked  on. 
I  could  not  bear  to  watch,  but  as  I  went  up  Balcombe 
Street  I  just  had  time  to  see  him  turn  round  and  the  girl 
wave  the  duster  at  him.  I  don't  know  whether  he  went 
back. 


One  might  have  thought  that,  after  this,  hatred  of  men 
would  have  overcome  me,  and  that  Mabel's  last  whisper, 
"Never  fall  in  love,"  would  have  influenced  me  for  a  little 
time.  That  I  should  have  resolved  to  be  a  workinggirl 
doing  her  duty  to  Mrs.  Vernham,  taking  down  her  idiotic 
novels,  basking  in  the  radiance  of  her  teeth,  and  affording  a 
respectful  ear  to  the  doings  of  her  committees.  Instead  of 
that  I  violently  reacted  from  the  horror  of  the  week.  This 
blood  and  agony,  the  beastliness  of  the  gamecock  for  whom 


128  URSULA   TRENT 

Mabel  had  died,  the  ugly  men,  the  dirty  court,  the  luscious 
coroner,  all  that  made  me  want  amusement,  change,  color, 
anything  that  was  just  life.  I  broke  into  Uncle  Victor's 
twenty  pounds.  I  bought  a  new  hat.  When  I'm  depressed 
I  always  buy  new  hats;  it  does  me  a  lot  of  good.  This  one 
was  the  dinkiest  I'd  struck  for  a  long  time — black  patent- 
leather,  the  shape  of  a  flower  pot,  fitting  just  over  my  eye- 
brows, and  trimmed  with  monkey  fur.  I  saw  it  hi  a  shop 
in  Hanover  Street  and  immediately  became  a  prey  to  un- 
governable lust.  I  knew  it  wouldn't  do  for  the  summer,  but 
I  was  past  caring.  It  cost  five  and  a  half  guineas,  but  I  was 
crazy  for  it.  I  put  it  on  right  away  and  walked  out,  feeling 
different.  I  looked  at  myself  in  the  shop  mirrors,  and  didn't 
care  a  damn  for  anybody.  I  can't  explain,  but  women  know 
what  I  mean.  Then  I  felt  that  I  must  live  up  to  my  hat,  so 
bought  oyster-gray  gloves  to  go  with  my  blue  coat  and 
skirt.  Very  expensive  in  peace  time.  As  I  put  them  on  I 
observed  my  hands;  they  were  all  right,  clean,  but  evidently 
hands  that  worked,  therefore  disgraceful.  I  must  be  mani- 
cured. I  walked  down  Regent  Street,  feeling  expensive, 
looking  into  the  chocolate  shops,  scent  shops,  conveying  by 
a  glance  that  if  I  chose  I  would  buy  the  lot.  It  was  a  bright 
March  day,  beautifully  warm.  At  the  Circus  I  bought  a 
bunch  of  white  narcissi  from  an  enormous  bundle  of  clothing 
which  contained  a  little,  old  woman.  I  was  manicured,  at  a 
place  in  Denman  Street,  by  a  nice  girl.  When  it  was  done  my 
finger  nails  looked  like  coral;  I  felt  more  expensive  than  ever 
and  tipped  the  girl  two  shillings.  In  the  evening  I  was 
crazy  enough  to  take  Monica  to  the  Hippodrome.  We  dined 
together,  and  I  had  a  little  too  much  to  drink.  I  thought 
I'd  done  with  Monica,  but  her  wealth  fitted  in  with  the  mood 
of  the  day.  When  I  got  home,  for  the  first  time  I  passed 
Mabel's  door  without  a  qualm,  and  went  to  bed.  I  didn't 
care  a  damn  for  anybody. 

ill 

Something  of  this  mood  must  have  percolated  next  day  to 
Philip  Vernham,  for  he  was  intelligent  and  sensitive.    Or 


AFTER  THE  INQUEST  129 

maybe  he  noticed  my  hat,  when  he  came  in  about  tea  time. 
He  probably  thought  it  homemade,  but  fetching.  Men  are 
fetched  by  our  clothes  without  knowing  it.  They  get  a 
general  effect  of  us,  and  when  we  wear  anything  new,  if  they 
notice  it,  they  think  we've  put  it  on  to  please  them.  They 
are  unimpressed,  but  flattered. 

"I  hope  that  inquest  didn't  upset  you,  Miss  Trent,"  he 
remarked,  sitting  on  the  table  and  dangling  his  legs. 

"It  did,  rather,"  I  said.  "But  what's  the  good  of  thinking 
of  these  things !  One's  got  to  live." 

"Yes,"  said  Philip,  espousing  my  mood,  "and  life  means 
love." 

"I  suppose  so,"  I  muttered,  "if  it  comes  one's  way." 

"It  comes  everybody's  way,  even  if  they're  not  pretty." 
I  did  not  reply;  his  gaze  embarrassed  me.  "Only  some 
people  are  too  cowardly  to  take  it  when  it  comes." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "there  are  all  sorts  of  risks,  aren't  there? 
Supposing  one  cares  for  somebody  that  doesn't  care  for  you. 
That's  pretty  hard." 

He  smiled  and  gently  slid  off  the  table,  murmuring: 
"That  '11  never  happen  to  you,  Ursula."  He  had  never 
called  me  Ursula  before,  and,  in  my  perturbation,  I  did  not 
resist  when  he  took  my  hand.  "You're  lovely,"  he  whis- 
pered. Then,  unresisting,  I  found  him  take  me  in  his  arms 
and  kiss  me.  I  didn't  want  to  resist.  Love  him?  No.  Like 
him?  Yes.  It  pleased  me  to  see  in  his  eyes,  as  they  opened, 
the  veiled  gleam  that  expresses  surprise  ...  as  if  a  man  did 
not  expect  to  find  in  a  caress  the  pleasure  he  has  garnered. 
He  held  me  so  for  a  long  time,  kissing  me  again  and  again, 
not  only  on  my  mouth  and  neck,  but  on  my  closed  eyes. 
It  was  so  tender,  that  last  caress;  when  I  received  it,  I 
realized  that  he  attracted  me.  So,  half  amazed,  for  a  mo- 
ment I  rested  my  cheek  on  his.  Never  before  had  I  done 
this  to  a  man,  and  my  slight  abandonment  delighted  him. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  releasing  me,  "we  can't  talk  here. 
Aunt  '11  be  back  in  a  moment.  Come  out  and  have  dinner 
to-night?" 

"All right,"  I  said.   "Where?" 


130  URSULA   TRENT 

"Cazzarino's.  You  know,  in  Oxford  Street.  Shall  we  say 
eight  o'clock?  Ask  for  me  and  . . .  No,  I'll  be  waiting  for  you 
in  the  lobby." 

IV 

If  I  had  not  been  so  busy  that  afternoon  I  might  not 
have  gone,  for  I  should  have  had  time  to  think,  but  Philip 
had  wasted  my  time,  and  Mrs.  Vernham  had  left  behind  some 
typing  which  she  considered  urgent.  Heavens!  What  a 
mess  I  made  of  it!  It  wasn't  so  much  that  I  was  looking 
forward  to  the  evening,  as  that  I  was  disturbed.  Anyhow, 
I  distributed  h's  where  j's  were  required,  and  even  f's.  I  was 
quite  impartial.  How  I  hated  the  stuff,  and  hated  Mrs. 
Vernham!  I  didn't  finish  till  twenty  past  six,  and  almost 
ran  home.  Everything  happened:  No  hot  water;  the  left 
glove  of  my  only  clean  pair  lost.  Found  at  half  past  seven. 
No  taxis  in  Marylebone  Road;  bus  13  again;  it  makes  one 
bitter.  The  hustle  helped,  for  I  didn't  know  what  I  was 
going  to.  Obviously,  some  time  in  the  taxi,  driving  home, 
he  was  bound  to  kiss  me.  It's  queer,  anticipating  caresses; 
they're  sweet  and  terrifying  hi  advance,  and  when  at  last 
one  receives  them  they're  never  what  one  expected;  some- 
times they're  better. 

I  got  to  Cazzarino's  at  two  minutes  to  eight;  for  a  moment 
I  stood  in  the  lobby  among  the  palm  trees  and  the  bead 
curtains,  terrified.  My  fault,  of  course,  being  early.  It  was 
horrid  to  stand  alone  in  a  public  place,  with  waiters  rushing 
by,  shouting  "  Coupe  Jacques!  deux! "  and  again  "  Bourn!  truite 
meuniere!"  But  at  once  he  stepped  toward  me.  He  was 
there.  I  ought  to  have  known  him  better.  He  looked  charm- 
ing in  evening  clothes,  a  shade  shorter  than  me,  waxen  white 
against  that  dead-looking  black  hair.  His  close-set  eyes  were 
half  surprised,  as  if  happy  and  afraid.  So  much  flattery  in  a 
glance. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  come  at  last,"  he  said.  (Charming 
flattery.  I  was  early,  but  he  conveyed  that  his  impatience 
had  brought  him  here  still  earlier;  yet  he  did  not  say  so.) 

"This  way."     He  pointed  to  the  stairs.     As  I  followed 


AFTER  THE  INQUEST  131 

him  he  turned  to  say,  "They  have  peaches  here,  peaches  in 
March." 

I  laughed.  I  didn't  quite  know  where  I  was  going  to,  for 
I  had  never  been  to  Cazzarino's.  While  waiting  in  the  lobby, 
I  had  seen  the  dining  hall,  a  very  large  room,  half  the  wall 
space  covered  with  mirrors  in  gilt  frames.  A  painted  ceiling, 
much  light,  a  vase  of  flowers  upon  every  table,  and  many 
people,  only  a  few  in  evening  clothes,  a  glimpse  of  a  large 
foreigner  with  a  mustache  like  Old  Bill,  and  of  two  fan*  girls 
in  low-cut  frocks,  leaning  across  and  talking  to  each  other. 
We  passed  the  first  floor.  Here  was  a  big  empty  room  where 
Freemasons  and  debating  clubs  sometimes  meet.  The  other 
floors  looked  strange.  A  corridor  had  been  cut  through,  and 
so  many  doors  fitted  that  it  looked  like  a  scene  upon  a  stage. 
Puzzled,  as  he  threw  open  a  door  marked  6,  I  walked  into  a 
narrow,  brightly  lit  space.  The  door  closed  behind.  Quite 
speechless,  I  saw  that  I  was  in  a  little  room  with  walls 
covered  in  horrible  rose-patterned  paper.  In  the  middle 
stood  a  table  laid  for  two,  with  a  large  basket  of  fruit  in  the 
middle.  Two  chairs,  a  small  table,  an  old  red-plush  sofa. 
That  was  all.  The  window,  I  later  found,  gave  upon  a  mews. 
At  present  it  was  shrouded  by  two  curtains  of  red  plush. 
The  strange  shape  of  the  room  puzzled  me.  It  was  about 
ten  feet  by  ten,  but  the  ceiling  hung  enormously  high.  It 
was  like  having  dinner  in  a  lift  shaft.  I  found  out  only  much 
later  that  three  floors  of  Cazzarino's,  once  rooms  for  enter- 
tainments, had  been  converted  into  these  little  hutches  of 
obscurity  and  emotion. 

I  was  in  a  private  room.  A  touch  of  fear  and  a  wave  of 
excitement  came  over  me.  A  private  room!  The  jokes  of 
the  past  entered  my  mind.  This  was  life,  Soho,  the  chorus 
girl,  all  that  sort  of  thing.  But  wasn't  it  a  bit?  ...  I  felt 
doubtful.  I  felt  a  Trent.  Why  didn't  he  take  me  to  the 
restaurant?  I  grew  angry  at  being,  in  a  way,  trapped.  But 
just  as  I  was  going  to  speak  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door, 
and  there  entered  (for  Philip  had  said,  "Come  in")  an  amiable 
and  very  stout  Italian  waiter,  with  a  wine  list  bound  in  red. 

"Let  me  see,"  said  Philip,  "what  would  you  like  to  drink  ?" 


132  URSULA   TRENT 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said. 

"Well,  what  about  a  little  fizz?" 

"That  would  be  very  nice,"  I  said,  automatically.  What 
could  I  say?  And  I  love  champagne. 

"Dry  or  sweet?    Now,  Ursula,  be  a  man  and  say  dry." 

I  laughed.  "All  right,  dry."  Oh  dear!  I  ought  to  say  I 
wanted  to  go  home,  and  now  Philip  was  ordering  liqueurs  to 
follow  coffee. 

"Yes,  benedictine,"  I  said,  "or  kummel." 

And  Philip  added,  "Send  up  the  bottle,  not  the  thimbles 
you  call  glasses." 

"  Yessir,"  said  the  Italian  waiter,  very  Englishly,  obviously 
having  practiced  this  reply. 

"Look  here,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  wait  a  minute,  I  can  hear  the  hors-d'oeuvre  coming." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  worriedly.  "I  know.  But  why  aren't  we 
dining  in  the  restaurant?" 

"It's  full  up.    Didn't  you  see?" 

Certainly  it  looked  full  up. 

"Won't  you  sit  down?"  He  pulled  up  one  of  the  chairs. 
"Have  a  cigarette,  so  that  you  may  smoke  while  you're 
having  hors-d'oeuvre.  That's  frightfully  fast."  He  made  me 
laugh.  I  couldn't  help  liking  him.  And  the  hors-d'oeuvre 
came  up  at  once.  I  was  eating  anchovies  before  I  had  made 
up  my  mind  to  go.  I  still  wore  my  hat  and  cloak.  Philip 
was  tactful  enough  not  to  suggest  that  I  should  remove  them. 
So  I'd  done  it.  Couldn't  turn  back.  I  was  silent,  but  just 
as  we  started  on  the  red  mullet,  it  is  evidence  of  strained 
nerves  that  a  limerick,  heard  at  the  hospital,  passed  through 
my  mind. 

I  giggled  aloud,  but  Philip  failed  to  extract  the  reason 
from  me,  for  the  limerick  had  made  the  affair  funny.  Noth- 
ing can  be  both  funny  and  fatal.  At  least,  one  thinks  that. 
So  I  determined  to  enjoy  myself,  and  drank  the  dry  cham- 
pagne like  an  Arab  lost  in  the  desert  in  an  oasis  sups  the 
water  from  the  well.  He  was  not  frightening  me.  Now  he 
talked  a  little  about  himself,  his  ambitions,  his  desire  to 
build  bridges  and  dams  that  would  make  Sir  John  Aird  and 


AFTER  THE  INQUEST  133 

Sir  Benjamin  Baker  envious.  He  made  the  engineering  craft 
interesting. 

"  Civil  engineers  get  all  the  fun,  really.  The  mining  people 
are  only  up  against  trifles  like  subsidences  and  drainage. 
The  electricals  never  seem  to  get  beyond  a  big  dynamo; 
but  we  see  our  bridges  go  up  to  heaven  and  our  roads  push 
out  like  snakes.  It's  the  real  thing.  One  can  get  hold  of 
one's  work  as  one  can  of  a  woman  one  loves.  Now  don't 
say  you  won't  have  any  more  fizz;  I  assure  you  it's  the 
goods.  Just  a  spot!"  I  weakened,  feeling  rather  vague. 
When  the  p§che  Melba  arrived,  my  will  being  completely 
released,  I  said  nothing  as  another  bottle  of  Mumm  arrived. 
Then  Philip  fell  under  the  sway  of  another  mood.  It  seemed 
that  life  was  so  unsatisfying  to  a  lonely  man. 

"There  you  sit,"  he  said,  in  a  veiled  voice,  "so  lovely,  a 
picture  of  beauty  to  make  a  man  blink,  and  I'm  entirely 
happy.  It's  nine  o'clock,  nearly.  In  a  few  minutes,  per- 
haps, I  must  open  the  door  of  this  temporary  paradise  to 
take  you  home.  We'll  have  been  ships  passing  in  the  night. 
What  a  pity!" 

My  eyes  blurred.  I  felt  so  sorry  for  him  that  I  emptied 
the  glass,  still  mysteriously  full. 

"Nonsense!"  I  said,  unsteadily.  "We  could  see  a  lot  of 
each  other  if  you  want  to." 

His  blue  eyes  looked  sorrowful  and  he  leaned  toward  me. 
I  thought  he  was  going  to  touch  me,  and  shrank  half  away, 
half  toward  him.  But  he  did  not.  Still  he  considered  me 
with  those  sad  blue  eyes;  his  melancholy  grew,  as,  over 
coffee,  we  smoked  in  silence.  I  looked  at  him  furtively. 
Yes,  he  was  very  good-looking.  Oh,  I  know  that  women 
pretend  that  they  don't  care  what  a  man  looks  like  if  he's 
got  strength,  as  we  call  it,  or  character,  but  I  know  better. 
Who  shall  resist  lips  carved  in  marble?  Soft  eyes  and 
level  brows?  I  was  sorry  for  him.  As  I  got  up,  rather 
carefully,  to  take  off  the  hat  that  worried  me,  I  was  sorry 
for  myself.  I  flung  my  hat  down  on  the  occasional  table, 
and  there  stood  for  a  moment,  saddened  by  the  temporary 
quality  of  life.  I  felt  so  warm  and  light  now,  but  in  a  few 


134  URSULA   TRENT 

hours,  as  he  said,  or  was  it  minutes,  we'd  part.  I  couldn't 
bear  it.  Tears  formed  in  my  eyes.  Almost  at  once  he  was 
by  my  side  and  I  was  in  his  arms.  "Darling,"  he  whis- 
pered, "what  is  it?  What  makes  you  unhappy?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Oh,  I  do  ...  and  there's  only  one  cure  for  that."  I  was 
too  tired  to  ask  what  was  the  cure  for  the  pain  of  the  world. 
I  was  content  to  stand  there  for  a  moment  in  his  embrace, 
and  to  give  my  lips  to  his  consoling  kisses.  I  was  com- 
fortable and  safe.  I  liked  to  feel  about  me  this  male  grasp. 
What  could  harm  me  within  such  a  ring? 

"I  love  you,"  he  whispered. 

I  did  not  reply.  I  don't  think  I  quite  believed  him,  but  I 
liked  to  think  I  did. 

"Since  the  first  moment  I  saw  you,"  he  muttered,  "I've 
loved  you." 

Still  I  was  passive  hi  his  arms,  and  he  construed  rightly 
this  passivity.  I  didn't  care  what  happened.  His  voice  still 
rang  hi  my  ears. 

"You  too  .  .  .  you  cared?"  Again  he  kissed  me.  I  was 
unendurably  weary,  careless.  I  just  didn't  mind.  Then  I 
found  myself  weeping,  softly,  and  he  didn't  seem  to  care. 


How  did  I  get  home?  I  did  not  brood  over  what  had 
happened.  Though  it  was  not  quite  twelve  o'clock,  I  stood 
for  a  moment  in  my  room,  weary  beyond  description,  not 
unhappy,  not  happy,  uncertain  of  my  own  regrets,  dimly 
aware  that  never  again  would  things  seem  the  same.  I  was 
too  tired  to  think.  I  went  to  bed  with  my  stockings  on.  I 
slept  as  after  a  long  day's  hunting.  I  was  like  an  exhausted 
animal,  and  only  habit  woke  me  up  at  half  past  seven,  made 
me  perform  my  usual  tasks,  washing,  dressing,  breakfast, 
going  to  work.  I  was  perfectly  normal,  and  Mrs.  Vernham 
found  no  fault  with  me. 

The  reaction  came  only  in  the  afternoon  when  suddenly 
my  hands  fell  from  the  machine  and  I  asked  myself  with 


AFTER  THE  INQUEST  135 

grave  calm:  "What  have  you  done?  How  did  you  come  to 
do  it?  "  I  could  not  answer  those  questions  then,  but  now  I 
know  women  better,  and  I  suspect  that  any  man  can  wed 
any  virgin,  any  lover  conquer  any  wife,  if  he  can  discover 
"her  moment,"  if  he  can  read  the  index  on  which  is  recorded 
her  emotional  zenith.  In  a  muddled  way  I  put  down  my 
folly  to  the  champagne,  which  was  silly,  and  told  myself 
that  I  couldn't  have  done  such  a  thing  but  for  the  excitement 
created  by  Mabel's  suicide.  I  know  that  sounds  absurd. 
One  might  think  that  such  an  example  as  that  would  have 
warned  me  off  entanglements,  would  have  made  me  run, 
terrified,  from  any  man  who  approached  me.  That  is  not 
so,  for  there  lies  a  magic  in  horror;  the  victim  is  dramatic, 
interesting.  One  feels  small  and  undistinguished  by  the 
side  of  her  who  loved  so  much  that  she  died  for  it.  How 
wonderful  it  must  have  been !  How  profound  must  have  been 
the  spell  laid  by  love!  And  so  one  seeks  the  fatal  spell; 
one  offers  oneself  to  the  enchanter;  one  would  suffer,  too, 
if  only  one  might  enjoy  a  thing  so  good  that  one  dies  for  the 
loss  of  it. 

After  a  time  a  new  feeling  came  to  me,  and  this  was  disap- 
pointment. Mabel  died  for  love.  Was  that  all?  It  came  to 
me  as  a  horrible  revelation  that  either  Mabel  or  I  must  be 
abnormal.  Was  that  all?  That  brief  struggle?  That  fear? 
That  sense  of  removal  from  self-control?  I  didn't  know 
myself  then.  I  had  not  learned  that  through  the  body  pas- 
sion can  disembody,  parallel  for  all  of  us  the  feat  of  levitation 
which  the  tranquil  fakir  performs,  as,  without  seeming  effort, 
he  rises  into  the  air.  No,  I  had  quaffed  no  elixir.  I  knew 
only  shock.  I  felt  defrauded.  I  was  ashamed  of  myself 
because  I  had  not  lived  up  to  my  dim  expectations  of  delight. 
"Is  that  all?"  I  asked  myself,  again  and  again,  without 
knowing  that  this  is  the  cry  of  every  woman  who  stretches 
out  her  hands  for  love  and  finds  only  a  lover. 

But  of  one  thing  I  was  not  ashamed,  and  that  was  of  what 
I  had  done.  I  had  given  myself,  yes,  and  outside  marriage. 
Well?  That  was  all.  I  didn't  grow  sociological;  I  didn't 
argue  about  the  evolution  of  morals;  I  was  tempted  to  look 


136  URSULA   TRENT 

upon  this  as  an  accident  which  would  not  be  repeated. 
Inwardly  I  was  very  glad.  You  may  say  I  was  not  pure- 
minded,  but  if  you  say  that  you  don't  understand  the  fem- 
inine attitude,  how  it  is  haunted  by  the  fear  of  the  unknown, 
how  modesty  shrinks  and  longs  to  be  destroyed,  how  greatly 
one  desires  to  throw  off  ignorance,  how  an  unconscious,  a 
nameless  impulse  drives  one  to  respond.  We  are  different 
in  this  from  young  men;  they,  too,  are  modest,  curious, 
stirred,  but  they  have  confessed  it  to  me,  they  suffer  from 
wilder  impulses,  from  the  instinct  to  aggression  and  to  con- 
quest for  its  own  sake.  That  is  why,  so  often,  men  pursue 
women  who  inspire  them  with  no  desire.  Their  vanity,  their 
lust  for  power,  their  habits,  their  hostility  to  other  men  who 
possess,  did  possess,  or  may  possess  those  women  make  it 
imperative  that  they  should  conquer.  That  is  why  they  take 
us  and  throw  us  away.  Every  man  would  have  his  harem 
and  other  men  for  his  eunuchs. 

The  idea  that  I  wasn't  a  pure  girl,  or  a  pure-minded  girl, 
or  whatever  it  is,  did  occur  to  me.  I  must  meet  Philip 
again.  I  thought,  "He  won't  respect  me  as  he  did."  Which 
shows  how  young  I  was;  now  I  know  that  men  don't  respect 
women  when  they  love  them;  they  wouldn't  be  so  cruel. 
If  I  had  said,  "He'll  desire  me  less,"  I'd  have  been  right. 
Pure-minded!  I've  had  ten  years  in  hospitals,  government 
offices,  manicure  shops,  and  smart  circles,  so  I'm  coming 
to  think  that  there's  no  such  thing  as  a  pure-minded  girl. 
If  we  set  aside  the  very  ardent  (these  are  very  few),  if  we 
leave  out  the  sleepy,  oppressed  girls,  who  are  half  quiescent 
and  also  in  the  minority,  I  feel  that  the  great  mass  of  girls 
does  not  correspond  with  the  magazine  conception  of  purity. 
The  magazine  girl,  who  loves  within  the  limits  of  the  conven- 
tions, doesn't  exist.  When  she  is  confronted  with  the  situation 
brought  about  by  her  own  impulses,  when  she  must  either 
give  herself  or  refuse  herself,  she  discovers  herself  as  either 
drawn,  larky,  or  frightened.  Fear  may  hold  her  back,  but 
purity!  No!  At  least,  I've  nowhere  met  the  condescending 
lily  who  practices  the  lofty  gospel  of  the  Victorian  novel. 

I  know  this  all  sounds  queer  from  me,  the  girl  from  the 


AFTER  THE  INQUEST  137 

counties,  from  those  counties  where  people  never  talk  of 
these  things,  where  they  do  them  only  in  a  hard,  mechanical 
way,  where  women  either  forgo  passion  or  indulge  in  it  as 
a  spiritless  pleasure.  I  let  myself  go  because  I  was  clean- 
minded,  because  I  wasn't  hemmed  in  by  false  modesties. 
No  tradition  held  me  back.  I  think  I  can  say,  parodying 
Dowson: 

"I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Purity,  in  my  fashion." 


VI 

Still  Philip  did  not  come.  Did  I  want  him  to?  I  didn't 
love  him.  Or  was  this  love?  I  had  thrown  myself  away, 
and  now  we  must  meet  on  a  different  footing;  I  still  had  the 
idea  that  he  would  respect  me  less;  but,  no,  it  wasn't  quite 
that.  I  was  still  child  enough  to  want  the  respect  of  men, 
but  what  I  feared  was  more  complex:  he  would  still  want  me, 
and  I  didn't  want  him,  not  exactly;  or  he  might  want  me 
no  more.  I'd  read  in  novels  of  these  things,  and  in  advance 
pride  was  offended.  I  wished  him  to  love  me  and  not  to 
love  me.  Already,  and  still  innocent,  I  was  asking  of  men 
what  all  women  ask  of  all  men — too  much.  He  was  to  be  a 
ghost  and  a  material  being,  the  past  and  the  future,  a  memory 
and  a  hope.  We  ask  a  lot  of  men,  and,  because  we  never  get 
it,  we  always  ask  it  of  other  men. 

But  all  that  didn't  alter  the  fact  that  sometime  that 
day,  no  doubt,  he  would  come  to  me.  I  would  hear  his  foot- 
steps and  I  would  bend  over  the  typewriter,  careless  and 
watchful.  Then?  Then  a  kiss  upon  my  bended  neck.  I 
would  leap  into  the  air,  saying,  "How  dare  you!"  thus 
expressing  with  dignity  maidenly  revolt.  Life  might  be  like 
novels.  But  I  was  discouraged;  dignity  would  surely  be 
out  of  place.  What  was  done  was  done,  and  was  I  so  sorry? 

In  fact  it  didn't  happen  quite  like  that.  I  did  hear  Philip's 
footsteps  behind  me  as  I  bent  over  my  typewriter,  and  so 
remained,  my  fingers  on  the  keys,  careless  and  watchful. 
Nothing  happened.  He  did  not  kiss  my  bended  neck.  I 
felt  myself  theatrical  in  that  pose,  important,  frightened, 


188  URSULA   TRENT 

and  flattered.  Still,  nothing  happened.  I  could  feel  him 
behind  me,  I  could  hear  him  breathe.  Was  he  nervous? 
Ashamed  of  himself,  perhaps?  Seeking  to  make  amends? 
Then  offense  overwhelmed  me  because  I  was  not  insulted 
by  his  impertinent  caresses,  because  attraction  did  not 
master  his  remorse.  I  put  this  psychological  situation  more 
simply,  "He  can't  want  me  much." 

Softly  he  came  to  my  side,  dragging  with  him  a  chair. 
He  took  my  hands  off  the  keys  and  looked  into  my  eyes 
with  an  air  of  gentle  merriment.  He  did  not  speak,  but  in 
each  palm  laid  a  kiss.  It  was  so  moving,  this  little  act  of 
adoration,  that  instinctively  m.  fingers  closed  about  his 
chin.  It  was  very  sweet,  and  soor  ^fter  I  let  him  lift  me  from 
my  chair,  take  me  upon  his  knees,  kiss  me.  I  thought  I 
loved  him,  and  knew  I  did  not,  but  already  he  had  the  lib- 
erator's authority;  he  was  the  accomplice  of  my  release. 

"You're  beautiful,"  he  murmured,  and  closed  about  me 
harder  arms.  A  sort  of  urgency  in  his  caresses  frightened  me. 
A  new  instinct  warned  me  that  now  I  was  delivered  to  him, 
and  a  new  caution  told  me  that  this  room  was  dangerous. 
How  far  already  I  had  progressed!  Without  desire  I  was 
already  seeking  safety.  And  it  ended  like  that;  there  was 
no  explanation.  There  was  no  "A™?  you  angry?"  There 
was  no  beautiful  forgiveness,  followed  either  by  a  pure  and 
redeeming  life,  or  by  a  rush  into  the  wild  excesses  of  the  girl 
who  has  nothing  more  to  lose.  Instead  we  merely  met  at 
six  o'clock,  walked  in  the  Park,  dined  together  publicly, 
went  to  a  music  hall.  At  half  past  eleven  he  said  good-by 
to  me  in  the  dark  passage  at  Balcombu  Street.  He  had 
l>een  charming;  had  attempted  no  more  than  I  would  con- 
sent, had  fed  me,  amused  me,  afforded  me  society,  made  me 
feel  in  the  restaurant  that  I  was  a  good-looking  girl  accom- 
panied by  a  good-looking  man,  and  that  those  two  hens  in 
the  corner  envied  me.  I  saw  them  looking  at  Philip;  their 
admiration  made  me  value  him.  Suddenly  I  understood 
Mabel,  and  wondered  whether  only  the  attractiveness  of 
Jim  to  other  women  had  made  her  love  him  so  consumingly. 
With  precocious  perversity  I  wished  that  Philip  already 


AFTER  THE  INQUEST  139^ 

might  threaten  unfaithfulness,  so  that  I  might  combat  his- 
infidelity. 

I  say  all  that  now,  who  am  a  woman  who  has  loved  and^ 
observed  men  in  relation  with  herself,  and  many  otheif 
women,  but  how  crude  I  was!  How  I  believed  him!  How 
I  dismissed  Mabel's  misery  by  telling  myself  that  Philip 
was  different.  We  always  think  that  our  men  are  different. 
Now  I  must  dig  into  those  old,  veiled  emotions  to  attain  this 
clarity  I  am  trying  to  impart  to  these  pages.  There  lay  so 
much  passion  then  under  my  coldness  that  I  didn't  under- 
stand myself;  now  that  my  mind  is  cooler,  I  marvel  at  my 
lack  of  sagacity. 

One  doesn't  know  what  one  does  when  one*s  a  young  girl. 
It  is  as  if  one  was  an  instrument  with  another  holding  the 
handle.  I  didn't  want  to  go  to  Cazzarino's  again,  but  when, 
as  we  parted,  he  asked  me  to  dine  there  again  the  next  night, 
I  hesitated  only  a  moment.  I  clearly  realized  that  if  I  went 
I  could  no  longer  plead  accident;  nothing  that  happened 
now  could  alter  the  past,  but  if  I  went  I  could  not  say  that 
I  was  without  guilt.  Suddenly  I  remembered  once  more  that 
"There  was  a  young  lady  of  Ghent,"  and  burst  into  sudden 
laughter,  which  I  had  to  stifle  for  fear  of  waking  Mrs. 
Witham. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  at  everything!    So  as  not  to  cry." 

He  was  holding  me  in  his  arms.  "You'll  come?"  he 
whispered. 

"  All  right,"  I  said,  "if  you  want  me  to." 


vn 

The  ardor  of  men  is  a  strange  thing.  It  rises  so  swiftly, 
and  as  swiftly  subsides.  I  think  we  soon  misunderstood 
each  other,  we  two,  and  I  wonder  whether  men  and  women 
are  not  joined  by  their  misunderstandings.  By  failing  to 
understand  they  gain  an  incentive  to  achieve  unity,  and  this 
precipitates  them  into  one  another's  arms.  After  a  few  weeks 

I  was  quite  sure  that  I  must  at  first  have  made  a  mistake. 
10 


140  URSULA   TRENT 

I  told  myself  that  I  was  in  love  because  I  had  discovered 
pleasure.  A  new  desire  to  own  him  entirely  came  to  me,  not 
that  in  cool  moments  I  had  illusions  as  to  the  depth  of  my 
fondness,  but  because  Philip  afforded  me  a  new  content- 
ment and  I  wanted  to  secure  myself  against  loss.  I  wanted 
to  marry  him.  I  did  not  suggest  it;  his  lightness  made  me 
suspect  that  he  would  give  me  up  as  easily  as  he  had  taken 
me.  Phrases  he  let  drop  evoked  a  long  life  of  adventure; 
he  was  thirty-five,  and  confessed  to  a  first  affair  at  fifteen. 
I  think  that  was  the  only  one  I  was  jealous  of,  because  that 
was  the  sacrifice  of  his  innocence.  I  felt  it  rather  unfair 
that  I  should  have  given  him  mine,  and  he  have  so 
long  ago  offered  up  his  own.  The  intervening  past  mattered 
less. 

It  was,  I  think,  this  sense  of  injury,  this  desire  to  blot  out 
his  past,  that  awoke  in  me  feelings  of  which  I  thought  myself 
incapable.  We  had  a  scene  one  week-end,  when  we  went 
away  together  and  stayed  at  an  inn  in  Sussex.  I  watched 
him  while  he  shaved.  A  sudden  hatred  arose  in  me  as  I 
grew  aware  of  the  virility  expressed  by  this  harsh,  dark 
stubble  that  I  could  hear  crissing  under  the  razor.  He 
made  faces  in  the  looking-glass.  He  smiled  contentedly  as 
he  stroked  his  smooth  cheek.  He  looked  self-complacent. 
I  was  unjust.  I  waited  until  he  had  finished  and  was  drying 
his  face.  Suddenly  I  said: 

"You  don't  love  me." 

He  looked  at  me,  surprised.  "What's  the  matter,  dar- 
ling?" he  asked. 

I  was  furious.  There  was  something  matter-of-fact  about 
this  "what's  the  matter,  darling?"  I  felt  that  a  husband 
would  talk  like  that  to  a  wife. 

He  went  on,  "Don't  I  make  you  happy?"  He  tried  to 
caress  my  cheek. 

I  shrank  away. 

"You  don't  love  me,  not  really.    Only  in  one  way." 

He  smiled.  "Oh,  you  women!  You  always  want  to  be 
loved  in  the  other  way.  Passionately  if  we  love  you  with 
our  hearts,  and  with  our  souls  if  it's  your  smile  thrills  us." 


AFTER   THE  INQUEST  141 

He  saw  that  I  was  going  to  cry  and  took  me  in  his  arms. 
Then,  as  he  held  me  so,  as  I  could  feel  the  beating  of  his 
heart,  I  was  conscious  of  that  awful  desolation  that  I  call  the 
sense  of  the  provisional.  Here  we  were,  we  two,  as  intimate 
as  human  beings  can  be,  yet  separate,  yet  doomed  to  drift 
away  when  the  first  hatred  that  men  caH  passion  had  passed 
away.  The  desolation  turned  to  anger  suddenly.  It  mustn't 
be.  It  couldn't  be.  I'd  gone  too  far  to  detach  myself.  He 
must  be  more  mine,  more  wholly  mine,  and  in  a  sort  of  rage 
I  dragged  his  head  down  and  covered  that  smooth,  cold 
face  with  kisses  destined  to  arouse  in  him  no  longer  passion, 
but  love.  He  submitted  to  me  almost  like  a  woman,  and, 
for  a  moment,  I  had  a  sense  of  triumph  when  at  last  I  saw 
him  by  my  side,  a  half -smile  upon  the  lips  that  mine  had 
held.  I  was  a  conqueror  malcontent  with  the  complete- 
ness of  conquest.  I  wanted  his  arms  round  me  still.  I 
wanted  him  never  to  be  satiated  of  me,  not  yet  knowing 
that  all  men  turn  away  in  their  satisfaction,  that  all  men 
burn  that  which  they  have  worshiped,  that  men  care  only 
for  a  little  time.  So  I  pressed  upon  his  lips  caresses  which 
he  tolerated,  wearied  him,  oppressed  him,  pursued  him, 
instead  of  teaching  him  to  pursue  me,  until  at  last  he  almost 
put  me  aside.  I  did  not  understand.  I  did  not  understand 
him  until  years  later,  when  his  memory  was  nothing  more  to 
me  than  the  ashes  of  incense.  He  had  wanted  to  play,  and 
I  couldn't  play  with  him.  I  don't  know  how  to  play.  No 
woman  does  until  she's  taught.  We  always  invest  all  our 
money  at  the  bank  of  Eros,  and  we  are  amazed  when  it 
suspends  payment.  So  I  didn't  understand  why  rapidly  he 
cooled,  why  to  my  new  ardor  nothing  responded  save  a  new 
languor.  Another  man  had  to  come  much  later  to  say  to 
me:  "Women  are  queer.  They  seem  to  fall  in  love  with  us 
just  about  the  time  when  we  get  sick  of  'em."  If  I'd  had 
wisdom  then,  I  might  have  retained  him  for  a  long  time,  by 
being  unexpected,  cold,  wayward.  But,  instead,  I  let  him 
assume  that  role.  I  created  him  so  by  my  simplicity. 

I  wanted  to  talk  of  him  with  the  nice  girl  with  the  brown 
eyes  who  manicured  me  at  Denman  Street.    I  said  something 


142  URSULA   TRENT 

about  men  being  difficult.  She  was  about  to  leave  to  get 
married,  and  she  didn't  agree.  She  said: 

"Oh,  well,  of  course,  in  some  ways  my  boy's  a  cure,  but  I 
expect  we'll  rub  along." 

Yes,  I  expect  she  rubs  along  without  much  friction.  She 
was  so  pleased,  so  certain.  She  was  not  sorry  to  leave  her 
job,  which  she  told  me  wasn't  bad — twenty-five  shillings  a 
"week  and  as  much  in  tips. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "when  one's  married  it's  not  like 
being  in  a  place  like  this.  I  hate  being  mauled  about." 

I  laughed.  "You  mean  that  when  you're  married  you 
won't  be  mauled  about?" 

"  It  won't  be  the  same  thing,  will  it?  Let  me  see,  you  don't 
like  varnish,  do  you?" 

No!  Brown  Eyes  wouldn't  teach  me  what  life  meant. 
She  was  getting  married,  and  everything  was  laid  out  for 
her.  I  was  an  adventuress,  and  I  wasn't  sure  that  I  had 
secured  the  golden  apples  of  the  Hesperides.  Gilt,  perhaps. 
Well,  it  was  too  late  to  try  to  understand.  I  could  only  go 
on.  For  another  month  we  went  on  like  this,  I  becoming 
ever  more  inclined  to  reproaches,  to  wearisome  demands  for 
demonstrations  for  which  Philip  was  not  ready.  He  under- 
stood it  all,  and  for  his  amusement  used  my  ardor.  It  pleased 
him  to  be  courted,  though  it  wearied  him,  too.  He  was  finding 
an  adventure  within  an  adventure.  It  began  to  tell  upon 
my  nerves,  for  I  slept  badly;  so  my  work  became  more  irk- 
some, and  I  did  it  less  well.  Mrs.  Vernham  censured  me, 
and  I  was  rude.  A  general  sense  of  strain  entered  the  house. 
First  Mrs.  Vernham  was  administering  dental  criticism; 
then  I  would  catch  Philip  behind  a  door,  seize  his  cool  hand, 
make  him  kiss  me,  and  tell  him  not  to  be  a  coward  when  he 
begged  me  to  be  careful. 

Then  he  went  to  Birmingham,  on  business,  for  a  week. 
Instinct  told  me  this  was  a  pretext,  that  he  was  getting  tired 
of  me,  that  my  demands  oppressed  him,  that  he  wanted  to 
cool  me.  He  succeeded,  in  a  way,  for  his  absence  and  the 
sudden  deprivation  of  society  and  amusements  filled  me  with 
depression.  I  hated  life.  It  was  like  running  an  endless 


AFTER  THE  INQUEST  143 

gantlet,  with  things  hitting  you  as  you  went.  I  faced  my 
situation  then.  I  had  committed  myself  with  a  man  I  didn't 
love;  he  had  gained  power  over  me  with  the  help  of  nature; 
sometime  he  would  resign  that  power.  It  was  intolerable 
that  he  might,  for  that  would  mean  a  frightful  isolation 
worse  than  the  original.  I  could  bear  to  be  neither  with  him 
nor  without  him. 

One  morning  Mrs.  Vernham  said:  "My  nephew  has  got 
a  very  good  position  in  the  Midlands.  He  is  to  be  second 
in  command  at  a  big  contractor's.  Very  nice  at  his  age." 
She  then  faced  me  with  a  representative  tooth  exhibition, 
and  added:  "I  was  always  scientific  myself.  I  have  made 
several  inventions,  but  my  father  didn't  want  them  patented 
because  he  didn't  want  me  to  put  myself  forward.  You  see, 
Miss  Trent,  we  were  so  strictly  brought  up." 

I  listened  for  a  long  time  to  tales  of  her  upbringing.  He 
had  gone.  He  had  run  away.  I  remembered  Doctor  Upnor. 
He'd  run  away,  too.  Did  men  always  run  away  from  women? 
Were  we  too  much  for  them?  Or  was  it  something  in  me? 

"Lady  Beatrice  laid  her  jeweled  hand  upon  the  head  of 
the  little  child,  and,  pointing  to  the  open  door  of  the  little 
church,  said  .  .  ." 

Bending  my  head  to  an  incomprehensible  fate,  I  began  to 
take  down. 


Chapter  VH 
Orange  Sticks 


""VT'OU  are  a  caution,"  said  the  brown-eyed  girl. 

JL  Perhaps  I  was.  At  least,  I  suppose  it  was  in  the 
nature  of  a  caution  to  find  relief  in  the  loss  of  things  it  held 
dear.  I  was  very  miserable  after  Philip  went.  I  missed  my 
pleasures,  dining  with  him,  having  this  pleasant  man  to 
talk  to,  going  to  the  theater,  going  to  sleep  with  the  feeling 
that  something  would  happen  next  day.  Of  those  who  read 
this,  all  will  not  understand  me.  They  don't  know  what  it 
is  to  look  forward  only  to  a  day  of  toil  without  anything  in 
it  that  excites  anticipation.  Sometimes  I  wanted  him,  just 
him,  his  pleasant  voice,  his  flattery;  sometimes  I  tried  to 
evoke  him  in  a  day  dream.  I  nearly  always  cried  a  little 
during  the  reaction  that  followed  this  exercise.  But  I  was 
a  caution  all  the  same.  I  was  a  caution  because,  mingling 
with  my  sense  of  loss  was  a  sense  of  freedom.  I  was  no 
longer  bound.  I  could  do  what  I  liked,  enter  freely  into  a 
new  slavery.  I  wanted  nobody,  but  it  was  like  the  day  when 
I  was  sacked  from  the  hospital — I  found  delight  in  the  idea 
of  the  possible  entanglements  to  come.  I  did  not  tell  all  this 
to  the  brown-eyed  girl,  but  I  tried  to  convey  to  her  this 
sense  that  nothing  lasted,  that  one  wanted  nothing  to  last. 
She  called  me  a  caution  because  she  didn't  understand  me. 
It  was  her  way  of  summing  up. 

"I  don't  see  what's  bothering  you,"  she  said.  "You've 
got  a  very  interesting  job,  haven't  you?  I  know  I'd  much 
rather  be  typing  beautiful  books  than  holding  hands  that 
look  as  if  they'd  been  carrying  coal.  To  say  nothing  ..." 
She  stopped.  "And  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  about 


ORANGE  STICKS  145- 

nothing  lasting.  I'm  going  to  be  married;  that  lasts  long 
enough  by  all  accounts." 

"Don't  married  men  ever  come  here?"  I  asked,  with 
sudden  sagacity,  born,  no  doubt,  of  my  talk  with  the  Quaker 
courtesan.  "And  don't  they  grow  confidential?" 

"Oh,  well,"  said  the  brown-eyed  manicurist,  whose  name 
was  Susie,  "there  are  people  who  don't  get  on,  of  course." 

"But  you'll  get  on,  won't  you?" 

"I  expect  so.    Oh,  sure  to.    He's  different,  you  know." 

I  didn't  inquire  farther  into  the  temperament  of  the 
young  man  who  was  different,  like  the  others.  Besides,  I 
had  my  own  troubles  to  think  of.  Mrs.  Vernham's  house 
was  intolerable  to  me.  I  was  madly  bored  with  her  form  of 
literature;  I  was  taking  down  worse  and  worse;  I  began  to 
put  down  Lady  Beatrice  instead  of  Duchess  Verena.  I 
could  have  insulted  Mrs.  Vernham  when,  on  a  stage  entirely 
decorated  with  teeth,  she  performed  a  play  in  five  hundred 
acts  entitled  "Mrs.  Vernham:  Her  Career,  Resource,  Ability, 
and  Influence."  I  tried  to  explain  to  Susie. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "if  you  don't  like  your  job,  why  don't 
you  get  another?" 

I  said  nothing.  These  hard-working  girls,  Susie,  Mabel, 
they  were  so  different  from  me.  Here  was  another  self-reliant 
girl,  sure  she  could  get  a  job,  ready  to  face  the  world. 

"How?"  I  said. 

"How  does  one  get  a  job?  There  are  agencies,  I  suppose. 
Or  one  advertises  in  the  papers." 

"And  suppose  I  didn't  get  a  job?" 

"Oh,  you'll  get  a  job  right  enough.  Go  down  to  the  City 
and  knock  at  doors,  and  ask  if  they  want  a  typist."  She 
smiled.  "With  a  face  like  yours  they  will,  even  if  it  isn't  for 
typing.  There!  You  mustn't  mind  me.  I've  got  coarse 
since  I  got  engaged,  and  in  a  place  like  this  men  do  say 
things." 

Suddenly  I  grew  clear.  I  was  sick  of  my  work,  listening 
to  Mrs.  Vernham  all  day,  and  having  to  behave  as  if  she 
were  wonderful,  smiling  when  she  tried  to  be  funny,  being 
asked  "whether  this  is  quite  clear,"  and  presumably  being 


146  URSULA   TRENT 

thought  a  fool  if  I  didn't  think  it  clear,  being,  in  a  way,  the 
public,  the  dull,  ignorant,  bestial  public. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Susie,  "but  if  you 
want  to  change  your  job,  why  don't  you  do  it?" 

"What  can  I  do?" 

"I  don't  know.    Why  not  manicure?" 

"I  don't  know  how  to  do  it." 

"No  more  did  I  once  upon  a  time.  It's  nothing.  I'll  teach 
you."  I  protested.  "Oh,  it  pays.  One  way  and  another, 
you  make  anything  up  to  three  pounds  a  week,  and  you  can 
have  a  bit  of  fun  if  you  like.  Men  '11  take  you  to  dinner 
and  to  theaters  if  you  aren't  standoffish.  It's  rather  fun, 
really,  and  I'd  like  to  stay  on,  but  my  boy  won't  let  me." 
She  smiled.  "I  wish  he'd  let  me,  but  one  likes  a  man  to  be 
jealous,  doesn't  one?" 

The  suggestion  hung  in  my  mind  for  some  time,  and  I 
amused  myself  with  day  dreams.  In  those  dreams  I  was 
looking  very  nice,  in  lingerie  blouses,  with  my  hair  fluffed 
out,  sitting  on  a  little  stool  at  the  feet  of  a  really  nice  sailor. 
I  worked  on  his  hands.  Then  he  got  troublesome,  and  I 
paralyzed  him  by  putting  in  one  hand  to  soak.  He  was  very 
nice,  nicer  than  Prank  Coriesmore.  He  drove  me  home  in 
his  car  and  .  .  .  well,  I  would  let  him  kiss  my  hand  if  he  was 
good.  But  I  don't  think  I  should  have  gone  if  Mrs.  Vernham 
had  not  become  more  acid  since  the  departure  of  Philip. 
She  missed  him,  as  I  missed  him,  too,  and  yet  we  could  not 
confide;  we  got  to  dislike  each  other.  Nothing  happened, 
but  there  was  continual  yapping:  "Don't  you  know  an 
interrogative  wants  a  query  mark  at  the  end?"  "'Bare,' 
meaning  *  with  nothing  on, '  is  not  spelled  like '  bear,'  an  animal 
who's  got  plenty  on."  (Dental  pause  to  allow  me  to  laugh 
at  the  pun.  No  result.)  "Really,  Miss  Trent,  you  must 
keep  a  pad  and  write  out  your  mistakes  each  time  on  a  sheet 
of  paper.  When  there  are  enough  of  them  we'll  have  them 
bound."  Later  I  annoyed  her  by  numbering  my  pages  while 
she  dictated.  It  put  her  off.  Then  Mrs.  Vernham  wanted 
me  to  come  and  take  down  one  of  her  lectures  in  the  evening, 
pointing  out  that  it  would  be  so  interesting  for  me.  I  was 


ORANGE  STICKS  147 

not  attracted  and  refused.  So,  suddenly,  a  week  later,  I 
said  to  the  brown-eyed  girl: 

"  I  say,  were  you  serious  about  my  going  in  for  manicuring?  " 

"  Why  not  ?  There's  nothing  in  it.  And  now's  your  chance. 
I'm  going  in  four  days,  and  we  haven't  got  a  new  girl,  so  far 
as  I  know.  Porky 'd  have  you  all  right." 

I  knew  Porky.  He  was  the  proprietor  of  the  barber's 
shop  below,  and  took  no  interest  in  the  conduct  of  the  shop 
upstairs.  He  was  elderly,  very  fat;  once  a  day  he  came  up, 
threw  a  detached  glance  at  the  curtained  recesses,  and  went 
down  again. 

"But  he  wouldn't  take  a  raw  hand." 

"Yes,  he  would,  if  I  told  him  the  tale.  Besides,  it  won't 
be  a  tale  when  I've  taught  you." 

"But . . ." 

"Don't  you  worry.  Porky  doesn't  talk  much,  but  he 
knows  all  about  this  business.  He'll  like  the  look  of  you. 
Leave  the  rest  to  me." 

And  so  it  was.  Porky  merely  remarked  that  anybody 
that  Susie  vouched  for  would  be  all  right.  Susie  was  splen- 
did. I  fetched  her  that  evening  at  seven  o'clock.  We  had 
dinner  at  the  Eustace  Miles  Restaurant,  and  I  took  her  home; 
she  had  brought  her  implements  with  her,  and  was  so  generous 
that  she  submitted  to  my  unskilled  practice  on  her  rather 
charming  hands.  It  was  not  very  difficult.  I  wrote  down 
the  theoretical  course,  the  succession  of  processes,  and 
learned  them  by  heart:  "File  the  nails  and  never  cut  them; 
ask  him  if  he  wants  them  long  or  short,  round  or  pointed. 
Never  cut  them  too  short,  even  if  he  says  you  are  to,  because 
if  you  do  he  won't  come  again  so  soon.  Soak.  Tell  him  to 
move  the  soap  about  in  the  water;  men  must  play  with 
something.  Clear  the  half  moon  with  a  cuticle  knife  and  trim 
with  the  cuticle  scissors.  But  never  cut  the  cuticle." 

"Sometimes  they're  stained  under  the  nail,"  said  Susie. 
"That's  a  nuisance.  Some  say  you  should  use  the  cuticle 
knife,  but  I'm  all  for  an  orange  stick  wound  with  cotton 
wool.  Soak  it  in  cleanser.  Finish  up  with  emery  board 
under  the  nail." 


148  URSULA   TRENT 

I  manicured  Susie  every  night,  three  nights  running,  and 
finally  was  passed. 

"I  don't  say  that  you  wouldn't  make  a  good  carpenter," 
remarked  Susie,  impartially.  "Fact  is,  you  wouldn't  be 
bad  as  a  butcher,  either.  Still,  if  you  don't  overdo  it,  if  you 
don't  do  more  than  trim  a  bit,  if  you  keep  off  fancy  work 
at  the  beginning,  you'll  do  all  right.  Use  your  looks  and 
they'll  forgive  you  a  lot." 


I  was  very  nervous  and  very  pleased.  I  was  so  glad  to 
have  got  away  from  Mrs.  Vernham's,  to  have  killed  the 
memory  of  Philip.  He  wasn't  brutal  about  it.  He  wrote  me 
a  charming  letter  from  Birmingham,  pointing  out  that  a 
demobed  officer  must  take  the  first  good  chance  he  could 
get,  asking  me  not  to  forget  him  (like  Doctor  Upnor),  and 
hoping  to  see  me  soon  again.  Yes,  a  beautiful  letter.  As  I 
have  said  before,  men  who  don't  love  you  always  write 
beautiful  letters.  I  had  no  time  to  think  of  him,  for  it  was 
rather  shattering,  this  new  occupation.  It  was  not  a  recog- 
nized occupation,  like  millinery  or  nursing;  it  had  a  touch 
of  the  disreputable.  This  hand-holding,  even  for  surgical 
purposes,  was  necessarily  a  little  sentimental.  I  began  like 
that,  and  I  never  grew  as  blunted  as  did  Polly  and  Miss 
Merton,  who  had  been  in  the  business  for  years  and  treated 
hands  as  dispassionately  as  they  would  have  feet. 

There  were  two  girls  besides  myself,  one  known  as  Polly, 
the  other  as  Miss  Merton.  Polly  couldn't  have  been  called 
anything  else;  one  couldn't  have  said  "Miss"  to  her.  She 
was  such  a  Polly,  with  her  rather  round,  rosy  face,  her  bright 
little  blue  eyes,  her  tumbled,  light-brown  hair,  her  capacity 
for  easy  merriment.  Polly  enjoyed  herself  in  the  manicure 
shop;  all  day,  at  intervals,  squeals  of  laughter  pierced  her 
curtain.  Sometimes  one  heard  her  protest,  "Oh,  go 
home!"  Pause,  squeaks,  scuffle.  "Oh,  Charlie,  do  give 
over!"  Then,  ferociously:  "Chuck  it,  or  I'll  empty  the 
bowl  on  you!" 

Miss  Merton  was  different.      She  was  very  pretty,  dark- 


ORANGE  STICKS  149 

haired,  exceedingly  sober.  She  had  a  Spanish  look,  and, 
knowing  it,  accentuated  her  type  by  wearing  a  red  flower 
in  her  curly  black  hair.  Nothing  ever  happened  behind 
Miss  Merton's  curtain.  Once  or  twice  only  I  heard  a  warn- 
ing "Now!"  Mostly  there  was  silence,  and  she  repelled 
familiarity  with  splendid  efficiency.  Miss  Merton  knew 
what  she  was  up  to. 

The  first  day  was  rather  a  racking  affair.  My  first  cus- 
tomer, just  before  lunch,  was  a  round,  fat,  fair,  middle-aged 
man,  who  would  have  been  rather  smart  if  he  had  not  been 
wearing  a  frock  coat.  Something  to  do  with  cinemas,  I 
believe.  When  I  returned  with  my  bowl  full  of  hot  water, 
absolutely  terrified,  and  sure  that  I  would  cut  him  to  the 
quick,  he  was  sitting  in  the  armchair,  his  square,  hairy  hands 
upon  his  knees,  and  these  knees  wide  apart  to  give  space  to 
his  stomach.  His  thick  mouth  was  smiling  amiably.  Any- 
how, he  looked  good-tempered.  As  I  sat  down,  quaking, 
having  drawn  my  curtain,  my  customer  remarked:  "I  say, 
you're  a  good  looker,"  and,  without  any  hesitation,  put  both 
arms  round  me  and  kissed  me.  I  was  too  surprised  to  re- 
sist. Then  I  struggled  madly,  without  a  word.  I  hated 
him.  I  dug  my  elbow  into  something  soft,  pushed  as  hard 
as  I  could.  I  wanted  to  hurt  him.  With  a  gasp  he  sud- 
denly let  me  go  and  nursed  his  injured  side,  while  I  returned 
to  my  little  stool,  where  I  sat,  trembling,  my  eyes  averted, 
too  weak  to  get  up,  and  yet  filled  with  the  intention  to  run 
away.  Then,  to  my  amazement,  he  said: 

"Hum!  ...  She  didn't  seem  to  like  it." 

He  wasn't  angry.  He  was  taking  it  naturally.  I  couldn't 
understand  it  at  all.  He  held  out  a  hairy  hand.  "Come  on, 
get  on  with  the  job."  Feebly  I  took  his  hand  and  set  to 
work.  After  a  while  he  began  to  talk  quite  amiably  about 
the  weather,  a  play  he  had  seen,  and  had  I  been  long  at  this 
job.  He  gave  me  no  more  trouble  at  all.  At  the  end  he 
tipped  me  a  shilling. 

That  was  the  first  specimen  I  collected  for  my  Denman 
Street  gallery.  He  was  not  an  unusual  type:  brutal,  but 
good-tempered,  and  not  really  unkind.  That  type  kissed 


150  URSULA   TRENT 

manicurists  as  a  matter  of  habit,  without  particularly  want- 
ing to,  just  as  many  men  kiss  girls  in  cabs  as  they  drive  them 
home  from  the  theater.  He  even  came  again  two  or  three 
times,  and  every  time  the  same  thing  happened.  At  last  he 
took  up  with  Polly,  who  thought  him  delightful.  They  got 
on  very  well,  and  once  I  heard  her  cry  out:  "Give  over,  old 
squeezer!  Do  you  take  me  for  a  lemon?" 

I  had  seven  customers  that  day,  six  of  whom  tried  to  kiss 
me.  When  the  second  one  tried  I  grew  quite  clear  that  I 
wasn't  going  to  stick  this  much  longer,  but  as  I  found  that 
I  could  stop  him  by  telling  him  I  didn't  like  it,  after  which 
he  became  fairly  pleasant,  I  changed  my  mind.  He,  too, 
gave  me  a  shilling.  The  others  only  gave  me  sixpence.  By 
the  end  of  the  day  I  had  learned  that  at  Denman  Street 
sixpence  was  the  usual  tip  for  manicuring,  and  that  for  an- 
other sixpence  one  had  to  put  in  a  bit  of  overtime,  as  Polly 
said.  The  third  seemed  quite  inoffensive  at  first,  and  began 
by  admiring  my  hands,  then  the  way  my  hair  swept  away 
from  my  brow,  then  the  set  of  my  ears.  Then  he  illustrated 
on  my  ear  the  beautiful  detachment  of  the  lobe,  and  I 
twitched  away.  He  kissed  me  by  surprise  on  the  back  of  the 
neck.  I  got  up,  rather  angry;  sixpence  only.  When  the 
fourth  man  tried  to  kiss  me  I  was  getting  used  to  it;  he  was 
another  of  the  huggers.  The  fifth  was  like  the  third;  he  was 
progressive.  The  sixth  man  I  forget.  The  seventh  was  very 
old,  and  persecuted  me  for  half  an  hour  to  find  out  all  about 
my  present  and  past  love  affairs.  At  first  I  said  I  hadn't 
got  any.  Then,  as  he  looked  disappointed,  I  invented  hard. 
He  was  frightfully  pleased;  his  white  beard  bristled  on  his 
pink  cheeks.  He  patted  my  hand  when  we  parted  and  gave 
me  half  a  crown." 

"Well,"  said  Polly,  as  she  did  her  hair  at  five  to  seven. 
"How  did  you  get  on?" 

"Oh,  all  right." 

"Found  the  boys  a  bit  trying,  didn't  you?  judging  by 
the  way  your  curtain  flapped  about.  But,  there,  I'm  not 
one  for  interfering." 

I  confided  a  little  of  my  experience  to  Polly,  and  she  con- 


ORANGE  STICKS  151 

finned  my  first  impression  that  men  were  either  huggers  or 
progressives,  and  that  only  once  in  a  way  did  you  meet  a 
man  who  didn't  try  it  on.  If  that  one  came  regularly,  you 
had  to  be  jolly  careful  of  him.  He  was  a  deep  one. 

"But  do  you  mean  to  say,"  I  asked  Polly,  "that  every 
man  who  comes  here  thinks  he's  got  the  right  to  ...  well, 
to  behave  like  that?" 

"Of  course  he  does,"  said  Polly,  casually.  "Do  you  think 
he's  going  to  waste  forty  minutes  in  a  place  like  this  unless 
he's  out  for  a  lark?  If  he's  not  out  for  hand-holding  he  has 
himself  done  downstairs  while  he  gets  shaved  or  has  his  hair 
cut.  If  he  comes  up  here,  it's  because  he  likes  it;  and  a  man 
will  have  his  bit  of  fun,  won't  he?  Well,  cheerio!"  In  a 
hoarse  whisper:  "I've  got  off  with  a  staff  major.  He's 
taking  me  to  the  Pav.  to-night.  He's  bound  to  have  a  pal; 
shall  I  get  one  for  you?" 

I  refused.  This  getting  off!  Mabel  had  got  off  for  good, 
poor  Mabel!  The  Quaker  courtesan,  and  Polly,  everybody 
talked  of  getting  off.  Were  we  women  created  to  get  off? 
As  the  week  passed  at  Denman  Street,  I  concluded  that  get- 
ting off  was  indeed  what  women  were  created  for.  Some 
got  off  in  marriage,  others  got  off  on  the  streets;  we  mani- 
curists got  off  more  superficially,  giving  kisses  and  no  more 
for  dinners  and  seats  at  the  theater.  It's  a  beastly  life  being 
a  woman. 

It  wasn't  altogether  beastly,  because  I  am  what  I  am,  and 
there  hung  about  the  manicure  parlor  an  irresistible  stimulus. 
It's  disgusting  to  have  a  man  persecuting  you  with  caresses, 
but  still  it's  flattering  in  a  small  way.  Some  were  rather 
nice,  and  good  looks  matter  so  much  to  me  that,  on  the 
fourth  day,  when  a  charming  Australian  put  his  arm  round 
me  as  we  got  up,  I  only  half  resisted.  Perhaps  I  was  getting 
worn  out;  perhaps  he  was  rather  nice.  Anyhow,  I  let  him 
kiss  me  just  once,  and  pushed  him  away.  "There,"  I  said, 
"be  good."  (I  was  already  picking  up  the  language.)  As 
he  tried  to  seize  me  again  I  hit  him  on  the  nose  with  the 
clothes  brush  and  ran  out  of  the  curtained  recess,  laughing. 
I  surprised  myself,  but  my  sense  of  self -contempt  was  not 


152  URSULA   TRENT 

so  strong  as  it  had  been.  Six  months  away  from  Ciber 
Court,  my  working  life  had  made  a  change  in  my  ideas. 

It  wasn't  a  bad  place.  A  rough  fellowship  arose  between 
us  three.  We'd  always  lie  for  one  another  if  by  any  chance 
Porky  came  in  and  asked  why  So-and-so  wasn't  back  and 
when  did  she  go  out  for  lunch?  We  exchanged  references 
about  the  customers,  too.  This  one  was  awful;  that  other 
was  quite  happy  if  you  got  him  to  talk  about  golf.  There 
was  very  little  rowdiness.  Beyond  some  squeaking  and  some 
movement  in  the  curtains  it  was  quite  a  proper  place. 
There  was  only  one  scene  in  my  first  month.  The  Australian 
came  back  with  a  friend,  and,  as  I  was  engaged,  went  into 
Miss  Merton,  with  whom  he  had  grown  familiar.  I  heard 
a  lot  of  laughing,  and  grave  reproaches.  Just  as  I  ushered 
out  my  customer,  frightful  screams  came  from  Miss  Merton's 
cubicle.  Polly  and  I  rushed  toward  the  recess,  followed  by 
Polly's  customer.  We  found  Miss  Merton  hi  the  grasp  of 
the  two  men,  who  were  practicing  upon  her  a  horrible  torture: 
while  one  held  her,  the  other  scraped  her  hair  off  a  much 
too  high  forehead  and  paraded  a  looking-glass  before  her 
eyes,  compelling  her  to  see  herself  at  her  most  unfavor- 
able. 

We  all  shrieked,  and  Miss  Merton  became  savage,  kicking, 
and  trying  to  scratch.  Then,  to  my  amazement,  she  ad- 
dressed the  man  who  held  her  down,  and  called  him  .  .  .  But 
I  can't  repeat  the  word.  She  grew  quite  pale.  "Let  me 
go,  you  .  .  ."  she  remarked  hi  a  conversational  voice.  It 
gave  him  a  shock.  He  let  her  go,  and  for  a  moment  every- 
body was  awkward.  "  Get  out,  all  of  you,"  said  Miss  Merton. 
She  loathed  us  all.  Her  fury  had  exposed  her  commonness. 
She  felt  it  badly,  and  for  two  or  three  days  hardly  spoke  to 
us.  The  Australians  came  only  once  more  and  tried  to  make 
it  up  with  two  pounds  of  chocolate.  Miss  Merton  was  splen- 
did. She  went  to  the  stairs,  called  down  for  the  apprentice. 
"Dickie,"  she  said,  "here's  a  couple  of  pounds  of  chocolate 
for  you."  Then  she  turned  to  the  Australians  and  said: 
"Is  there  anything  else  I  can  do  for  you  to-day?  Anything 
except  manicuring,  and  I'll  be  charmed." 


ORANGE  STICKS  153 

I  couldn't  help  respecting  Miss  Merton.  She  was  making 
such  a  successful  struggle  against  her  commonness.  She 
came,  I  felt,  from  incredible  slums,  from  a  room  where  four 
or  five  people  slept,  and,  animated  by  an  amazing  determina- 
tion to  rise,  she'd  fought  her  way  into  h's,  fought  it  into 
cleanliness,  fought  it  into  clear,  careful  speech.  She  was 
engaged  to  the  head  clerk  of  an  estate  agent.  Harsh  and 
cold,  she  was  making  her  way  with  fine  courage,  determined 
to  be  respected. 

Polly  was  different,  and  much  more  charming.  We  became 
friendly  one  day,  after  lunch,  when  she  came  in  rather 
breathless,  undid  a  parcel,  and  showed  me  a  pair  of  pale- 
blue  artificial  silk  stockings.  "Aren't  they  lovely?"  she 
said.  Her  eyes  were  gleaming.  "I  do  love  blue,"  she  said. 
I  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  she  mainly  wore  blue.  I 
had  been  there  nearly  a  month  and  once  only  had  observed 
a  horrible  outbreak  of  seasick  green.  Then  she  returned  to 
blue.  Blue  had  a  dream  quality. 

"If  I  was  rich,"  said  Polly,  "I'd  have  everything  blue. 
These  were  a  present." 

The  remarkable  thing  about  Polly  was  that  she  knew  how 
to  obtain  such  presents  and  yet  prevent  excessive  familiarity. 
With  splendid  impartiality  she  allowed  herself  to  be  fondled 
by  anybody  who  passed  her  curtain.  She  did  it  without  vice, 
laughing,  just  like  a  friendly  cat  at  an  area  gate  who  holds 
out  to  any  passer-by  a  head  to  be  tickled.  Some  people 
would  have  called  her  loose;  in  fact  that  apparent  looseness 
was  an  evidence  of  her  purity  of  mind.  Caresses  meant 
nothing  to  her.  She  didn't  dwell  on  them,  as  do  the  somber 
unapproachables  in  whose  mind  the  neighborhood  of  men 
creates  response. 

"  I  do  love  blue,"  she  repeated.  "  I  must  put  them  on  now. 
I  can't  wait."  She  took  off  her  shoes  and  stockings,  showing 
her  feet  and  legs  without  any  shame.  They  were  pretty  feet, 
but  she  didn't  seem  to  know  it;  she  was  thinking  only  of 
blue.  Again,  some  people  may  call  her  immodest,  but  this 
was  an  evidence  of  her  perfect  naturalness;  she  was  not  like 
the  evading  suggestives,  who  can't  exhibit  an  elbow  without 


154  URSULA   TRENT 

thinking  that  it  breeds  interest.  She  was  a  little  round,  rosy, 
pleasant  animal. 

"Clothes  help  a  lot,"  she  said,  meditatively.  "When  I 
feel  nicely  dressed  I  don't  get  indigestion.  Do  you  think 
Regesan  is  any  good?" 

"I've  never  tried  it." 

"Not  really?  It's  about  the  only  thing  I  haven't  tried. 
It's  advertised  such  a  lot  there  must  be  something  in  it.  But 
I  do  have  a  time.  Pain  inside!  Simply  awf  *1 ! " 

I  couldn't  help  laughing.  Her  blunt  innocence  was 
charming. 

"There's  nothing  to  laugh  about,"  she  said,  offended. 
"You'd  have  indigestion  if  you  had  nerves  like  me." 

"What's  given  you  nerves?" 

"Oh,  one  thing  and  another,"  she  confided.  She  was 
engaged  to  a  young  man  whose  picture  I  was  shown,  a  young 
clerk,  good-looking  in  a  delicate  way,  wearing  a  large  watch 
chain  on  which  were  fastened  swimming  prizes  and  masonic 
signs.  She  carried  his  picture  in  a  locket  round  her  neck, 
with  a  four-leaved  shamrock  on  the  other  side.  Some  cus- 
tomer had  told  her  that  she  carried  with  her  luck  and  love. 
She  repeated  this  to  everybody,  and  repulsed  the  over- 
adventurous  by  pointing  out  that  her  boy  was  looking. 

She  had  complicated  troubles.  Her  boy  was  anxious  to 
marry  her  at  once,  but,  though  she  would  not  acknowledge 
it,  she  felt  that  they  had  been  engaged  too  short  a  time, 
only  two  years.  Her  class  instinct  made  her  look  forward  to 
a  normal  tune  of  trial  of  at  least  four  years.  Also,  her  father 
was  a  sickly  pensioner,  and  her  mother  did  washing  at  irregu- 
lar intervals.  So  they  depended  upon  her,  and  she  felt  re- 
sponsible. She  had  some  idea  of  setting  them  up  in  a  small 
house  where  they  could  let  lodgings,  and  she  couldn't  marry 
until  she'd  done  it.  Also  there  was  the  trousseau  to  get — 
a  blue  one. 

"  Oh,  well,  such  is  life,"  she  summed  up.  One  of  her  regular 
customers  came  in.  They  went  behind  the  curtain,  and  soon 
there  was  giggling.  When  I  saw  her,  later  in  the  afternoon, 
all  her  troubles  were  forgotten.  She  was  entirely  happy,  for 


ORANGE  STICKS  155 

her  customer  had  added  to  her  collection  a  photograph  signed 
by  Gladys  Cooper  in  her  own  hand.  This  accounted  for 
occasional  outbreaks  of  music  from  behind  the  curtain. 
When  Polly  was  elated,  while  she  manicured  she  sang.  One 
heard: 

"  I  want  to  go  back,  I  want  to  go  back, 
I  want  to  go  back  to  the  farm." 

She  was  very  out  of  date.  Then  she  would  be  interrupted, 
one  guessed  how.  The  song  would  stop.  "Don't  be  silly." 
In  a  warning  tone,  "Now!"  Repression  successful.  Song 
resumed: 

"  I  want  to  go  back,  I  want  to  go  back, 
I  want  to  go  back  to  the  farm." 

She  was  a  darling. 

in 

I  began  to  acquire  regulars.  Regulars  are  rather  a  nui- 
sance, for  they  expect  to  be  dawdled  over,  humored  when 
affectionate,  and  grow  rather  cross  when  they  have  to  wait. 
On  the  other  hand,  they  provide  a  certain  income.  Also, 
it's  the  thing  to  have.  Every  trade  has  its  blue  ribbon,  and 
the  manicurist  has  failed  if  every  day  one  man  does  not 
gloomily  wait  outside  the  curtain,  listening,  with  jealous 
vigilance,  for  unfaithful  sounds.  Thanks  to  my  regulars,  I 
was  now  earning  just  on  three  pounds  a  week  and  was  ac- 
cepting life  with  a  certain  degree  of  amusement.  Some  of 
the  men  were  not  dull;  a  few  were  attractive;  but  I  still 
kept  my  rules  and  gave  nothing  consentingly,  even  to  Mr. 
Wilby,  my  soldier  regular,  the  most  difficult  of  them  all. 
I  realized  that  I  had  escaped  from  Mrs.  Vernham  only  into 
a  life  that  would  lead  me  to  nothing  much  more  precise. 
Excepting  marriage,  perhaps.  Susie  had  got  married;  Miss 
Merton  and  Polly  were  engaged.  It  was,  as  Polly  remarked, 
a  good  place  in  which  to  commit  bigamy.  But  did  I  want 
to  get  married?  I  told  myself  I  didn't,  though,  of  course,  I 
did.  Marriage  is  the  terminus  for  women;  it's  only  less 


156  URSULA   TRENT 

final  than  death.  I  realized  also  that  if  I  wanted  to  get 
married,  I  would  much  more  likely  achieve  it  here  than  in 
Mrs.  Vernham's  study.  There,  after  all,  I  had  found  only 
Philip.  What  a  fool  I  had  been  with  Philip!  I  wonder 
whether  he'd  have  married  me  if  I'd  held  out.  I  suppose  so. 
I  suppose  most  marriages  are  merely  evidence  that  the  girl 
has  held  out,  or  that  the  man  knew  she  would  hold  out. 
Did  I  wish  I  had  married  him?  Well,  in  my  present  frame  of 
mind  I  did,  because  I  was  thawing,  was  beginning  to  under- 
stand Isabel  and  her  theory,  "Get  married,  and  then  we'll 
see." 

Just  about  then  I  had  a  difficult  interview  with  Isabel.  I 
knew  what  would  happen,  so  had  not  told  her  what  I  was 
doing,  but  Mrs.  Vernham  told  her  I'd  left  her,  and  Isabel 
called  at  Balcombe  Street,  interviewed  Mrs.  Witham,  who 
did  not  conceal  my  new  occupation.  I  had  to  go  and  have 
tea  on  a  Saturday  afternoon.  Isabel  was  furious. 

"How  can  you  be  such  a  fool?  I  suppose  you  think  you've 
done  something  clever?  I  suppose  you  think  you'll  get  mar- 
ried in  that  manicure  shop?" 

"Well,  one  does,"  I  replied,  aggressively. 

"Yes!  To  what  sort  of  man?  To  the  sort  of  man  that  gets 
manicured.  I  suppose  you're  doing  it  under  your  own 
name?" 

"Yes.    There's  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of." 

"Who's  talking  of  shame?  It  isn't  shameful,  it's  silly. 
So  long  as  you  were  tucked  away  in  Mrs.  Vernham's  back 
room  nobody  knew  anything  about  you  and  you  were  all 
right.  What's  going  to  happen  if  you  do  marry?  When 
later  on  you  meet  the  men  you  have  manicured?" 

"Perhaps  I  sha'n't  marry,"  I  replied.  "There  are  other 
things  than  marriage." 

"  Work ! "  said  Isabel,  sardonic. 

"Not  only  work,"  I  replied,  and  said  more  than  I  meant. 
"One  doesn't  need  to  marry  to  know  men." 

Isabel  understood  me  at  once.  She  seemed  to  detect  some 
change  in  my  features. 

"Oh!"  she  said  at  length.    "If  that's  what  you  mean!" 


ORANGE  STICKS  157 

She  grew  embarrassed.  She  sort  of  gave  me  up.  She  no 
longer  tried  to  get  me  out  of  the  manicure  shop,  but  said  that 
I  ought  to  go  on  the  stage.  I  understood.  Isabel  wanted 
a  conventional  cloak  for  the  irregularities  she  suspected. 
But  she  was  not  unkind  to  me,  and  it  was  she  soothed 
mamma,  who  came  up,  weeping,  offering  forgiveness  and  an 
allowance  to  a  daughter  who  grew  more  independent  and 
more  cruel  as  her  mother  wept  more.  Isabel  made  mamma 
understand  that  I'd  better  be  let  alone,  and  that  all  she  could 
do  was  to  fatten  the  calf  in  the  hope  that  one  day  the  prodigal 
daughter  would  return. 

"I  told  her  that  if  she  went  on  trying  to  save  you  she'd 
drive  you  to  the  devil." 

Isabel  is  as  brutal  as  me  in  some  ways. 


Chapter  TOI 
Ding-Dong 


T  WAS  getting  used  to  the  life.  I  liked  these  girls,  whether 
JL  evasive  or  flaunting.  There  exists  a  sort  of  physical  at- 
traction between  women,  greater  than  exists  between  men. 
What  I  mean  is  that  men  don't  seem  to  mind  the  ugliness  of 
their  close  friends;  we  tolerate  it  too,  but  seldom  is  a  man 
affected  by  male  beauty  as  we  are  by  female  beauty.  Polly's 
bright  blue  eyes  were  a  continual  pleasure,  and  so  was  Miss 
Merton's  Spanish  air.  Strange  girl,  Miss  Merton.  I  never 
understood  her;  she  would  never  intrust  herself.  One 
didn't  know  anything  about  her,  except  that  she  loved  fancy- 
dress  balls.  Just  then  she  left,  suddenly,  saying  that  she  was 
going  somewhere  else,  and  I  never  saw  her  again.  She  was 
replaced  by  a  girl  called  Hilda,  who  at  once  created  some 
disturbance  among  Polly's  regulars  and  mine.  It  was  a 
nuisance,  because  in  the  manicure  world  the  regular  con- 
tracts a  sort  of  marriage  with  his  manicurist.  No  other  girl 
invites  him  behind  her  curtain;  it  isn't  done.  She  talks  to 
him  as  to  the  husband  of  her  best  friend,  amiably,  but  with- 
out invitation.  The  regular  may  have  his  nails  done  by 
somebody  else  if  his  girl  happens  to  be  ill  or  away,  but  it  is 
a  sign  of  greater  virtue  to  let  his  fingers  go  until  she  comes 
back. 

That  is  where  Hilda  proved  troublesome.  She  was  too 
pretty.  She  had  the  most  perfect,  honey-colored  hair,  water- 
gray  eyes,  a  dead-white  skin  which  made  her  thick  mouth 
seem  excessively  red;  her  lips  were  always  a  little  chapped, 
as  if  she  were  consumed  by  a  fever.  She  had  the  most 
exquisite  hands,  small,  shadowed  in  sepia  inside  the  joints; 


DING-DONG  159 

the  sepia  shadow  recurred  at  the  elbow  joints.  If  I  had  been 
a  man  I  should  have  wanted  to  kiss  her  hi  the  somber  hollow 
between  arm  and  forearm.  She  was  very  small-boned,  full- 
figured  and  erect.  A  strange  combination  of  high  breeding 
and  slum  environment.  She  always  spoke  with  extraordinary 
care,  never  slurring  a  negative,  being  afraid  of  not  talking 
properly.  We  wrangled  at  first  when  Mr.  Wilby  went  to 
her  because  I  was  a  quarter  of  an  hour  late  after  lunch, 
though  I  had  made  an  appointment  with  him.  Also,  she  bor- 
rowed my  scissors  without  telling  me.  I  thought  Polly  had 
taken  them,  burst  into  her  cubicle,  not  knowing  that  she  had 
a  customer,  and  found  her  in  his  arms;  obviously  that's  why 
there  was  no  noise.  Polly  went  for  me.  The  row  about 
scissors  and  bursting  into  other  people's  cubicles  went  on  for 
two  days,  during  which  Hilda  maintained  an  attitude  of 
beautiful  neutrality.  The  little  beast,  hearing  what  was 
happening,  had  slipped  out  of  her  cubicle  and  quietly  dropped 
the  scissors  behind  my  customer's  chair  without  his  noticing. 
At  least,  I  swear  it  must  have  happened  like  that. 

Hilda  was  absolutely  mobbed;  she  got  so  much  work  that 
some  fell  to  Polly  and  me,  which  was  satisfying  but  humili- 
ating. This  made  me  consider  whether  I  was  pretty,  for  I 
was  not  used  to  being  eclipsed.  But  by  degrees  we  settled 
down,  thanks  to  a  man  called  Lawrence  Knighton.  He  prac- 
tically settled  the  Hilda  problem  by  becoming  crazy  for  her 
and  coming  to  be  manicured  every  day.  He  was  tall,  rather 
dark,  had  nothing  to  do,  and  was,  I  discovered  a  little  later, 
the  eldest  son  of  an  Irish  peer.  I  don't  think  Hilda  encouraged 
him  much;  she  was  too  cool  and  too  careful.  I  caught  a 
glimpse  of  them  one  afternoon  through  an  ill-drawn  curtain. 
He  was  sitting  opposite  the  girl,  who  had  just  finished  trim- 
ming his  nails,  gazing  at  her  with  an  awful  air  of  abasement. 
He  tried  to  press  her  hand,  which  she  withdrew,  and  so  they 
stayed. 

It's  a  funny  thing,  the  helplessness  of  men  before  women 
when  these  know  how  to  hold  themselves  in.  So  many  were 
passing  before  me  every  day,  men  of  all  sorts — old  men,  feebly 
gallant  or  frankly  disgusting;  boys  out  for  a  rag;  married 


160  URSULA   TRENT 

men,  rather  ponderous  or  inclined  to  confide  their  miseries; 
philanderers,  anxious  to  take  a  little  stimulus  and  not  to 
entangle  themselves  too  deeply;  or  a  more  physical  type, 
going  from  shop  to  shop,  seldom  persevering,  determined  to 
find  easy  adventure.  One  gets  to  know  men  like  that,  be- 
cause few  can  sit  alone  with  a  girl,  hands  touching,  without 
confiding  something  of  their  hopes,  disappointments,  and 
vanities.  One  man,  a  queer  person  with  moist  locks,  and 
(this  was  one  of  the  minor  horrors  of  my  trade)  moist  hands, 
paid  me  a  few  cadaverous  visits  and  gave  me  the  f  olio  wing 
cadaverous  lines.  As  I  have  said,  I  don't  understand  poetry, 
but  I  feel  they  are  pretty  bad: 

TO  URSULA  THE  MANICURIST 

My  hands  she  holds  in  her  long  brown  hands, 
So  firm,  so  nervous,  and  pulsing  through  with  life. 
Those  hands,  I  see  them  in  their  predestined  strife 
With  Death  the  Riveter  of  the  eternal  bands. 
Her  hands  the  coverlet  will  pluck  that  day, 
Reluctant  and  afraid  their  grasp  to  slack, 
And  as  her  thoughts  grow  dim  they  will  go  back 
To  all  those  hands  she  held  when  young  and  gay: 
Fine  hands  that  molded  thrones  or  set  out  song, 
Pale  hands  too  weak  to  do  aught  but  dry  tears, 
Fierce  hands  that  slew  a  foe  and  knew  not  fears, 
Gross  hands  that,  clasping  hers,  would  do  her  wrong. 
But  no  hand  will  touch  hers  that  once  so  many  pressed, 
On  that  day  when  all  things  from  all  things  fade  away, 
When  in  the  play  of  life  she  has  no  more  to  say, 
And  empty-handed  goes  to  an  unending  rest. 

That  was  the  sort  of  thing  I  had  to  accept  as  a  compliment. 
We  had  a  tea  party  once,  Hilda  and  Mr.  Knighton,  a  stranger 
and  myself.  Everybody  got  familiar.  The  stranger  kissed 
me,  half  unrebuked,  while  Hilda  held  away,  with  those  mar- 
velous water-gray  eyes,  the  humble  Knighton,  who  at  last 
went  down  upon  his  knees  and  was  allowed  to  kiss  the  sepia- 
touched  fingers. 


DING-DONG  161 

So  far  I  had  refused  the  perquisites  of  my  trade,  except  that 
twice  I  went  out  to  dinner  and  to  the  theater  with  Mr.  Wilby, 
who  behaved  very  well,  even  in  the  taxi  going  home.  He 
merely  sighed  when  I  repulsed  him,  and  said  that  he  was  a 
Jonah  and  girls  didn't  like  him.  I  did  not  respond.  I  knew 
these  tactics,  and  always  expected  trouble  when  a  man  said 
that  nobody  loved  him  or  that  he  suffered  from  shyness.  I 
think  I  lost  him  that  way;  I  was  not  very  successful  then. 
There  was  a  lack  of  yield  about  me.  These  trifles  that  men 
expect  were  not  trifles  with  me.  I  can't  play.  I  had  a  model 
before  me  in  the  shape  of  Freda,  whose  whole  name  was 
Frederika  Watterdal,  some  sort  of  Swede,  I  believe,  who 
was  engaged,  owing  to  the  new  business  brought  by  Hilda. 
Freda  was  mainly  pursued  by  a  man  called  Mr.  Higham,  a 
very  rich  widower,  who  owned  many  restaurants.  Freda 
was  interesting,  extremely  tall,  cool-looking,  with  an  equiv- 
ocal gleam  in  her  dark  eyes.  She  spoke  very  little,  and  then 
in  a  careless  tone.  She  was  chaffed  about  Mr.  Higham,  and 
merely  replied,  "Yes,  he's  old  and  not  pretty."  That  was 
all.  That  was  how  she  took  life. 

I  believe  that  the  attitude  of  Freda  and  the  return  of  Philip 
altered  my  point  of  view.  Philip  discovered  me  by  making 
a  flying  visit  to  London  and,  one  morning,  following  me  from 
Balcombe  Street  to  the  manicure  shop.  He  then  came  in  to 
be  manicured.  For  a  moment  I  was  melted  by  his  good  looks, 
but  I  wouldn't  speak  to  him.  Beyond  asking  him  whether 
he  wanted  them  long  or  short,  round  or  pointed,  I  would  not 
answer  him,  though  he  explained  at  length  the  needs  of 
his  career  and  the  impossibility  of  things  going  on  forever, 
though  they  might  go  on  at  intervals.  I  refused  to  say  good- 
by  to  him,  though  I  took  his  tip.  I  felt  a  resentment  against 
him,  and  it  was  not  that  he  had  deserted  me;  it  was  that  he 
had  waited  two  months  to  seek  me  out  again.  If  he  had 
come  back  three  days  after  his  desertion,  forfeiting  his 
career,  unfaithful  to  me  hi  his  mind,  but  unable  to  resist  me, 
I  could  have  loved  him.  But  I  could  not  be  the  decoration 
of  his  week-ends.  He  must  have  understood  this,  for  I  never 
heard  of  him  or  saw  him  again.  He  left  me  frozen  and  de- 


162  URSULA   TRENT 

termined  to  profit  by  the  lesson  he  had  given  me.  The  nat- 
ural reaction,  yes,  I  say  natural,  was  that  I  suddenly  flung 
myself  into  the  trifling  pleasures  of  the  shop.  He  had  made 
me  so  angry,  had  made  it  so  clear  to  me  that  I'd  been  a  fool 
with  him,  that  I  became  a  fool  with  others.  For  a  fortnight 
I  was  seductive  and  careless.  I  did  not  resist,  and  I  was 
successful.  I  think  I  saw  all  the  revues  of  the  day,  with 
a  different  man  by  my  side  and  a  different  hand  holding 
mine.  I  was  given  presents,  chocolates,  gloves;  I  had  too 
much  to  drink.  Only,  some  secret  tradition  saved  me  from 
the  most  extreme  of  follies.  There  are  limits  that  I  can't 
pass;  something  won't  let  me.  I  can't  play;  I  wish  I  could, 
but  I  can  no  more  give  myself  to  a  man  without  the  illusion 
of  love  than  I  can  sell  myself. 


n 

I  think  I  know  why  I  did  these  things;  there  are  times  in 
the  life  of  a  woman  when  she  must  assure  herself  that  she 
is  still  pretty,  still  desirable.  So  she  does  not  repel  the  caress 
which  she  does  not  invite,  except  just  as  much  as  will  make  it 
certain  that  the  caress  is  sought  after.  She  submits  because 
only  by  so  doing  can  she  discover  whether  her  attraction  is 
as  intense  as  it  was.  One  wants  to  be  quite  sure  that  men 
still  want  one;  it's  evidence  that  one  is  still  alive. 

Polly  didn't  face  such  complicated  problems.  She  was 
kissed  by  anybody,  but  when  she  was  married  she  would  be 
beautifully  faithful.  I  realized  this  as  I  came  to  know  her 
better,  after  spending  a  week-end  with  her  and  her  people 
at  their  house  in  Hornsey.  Polly  had  taken  a  fancy  to  me. 
As  she  put  it:  "You're  not  one  of  us,  say  what  you  like.  I 
like  your  ways;  there's  something  'orty  about  you."  (Polly 
had  her  h's  perfectly,  but  thought  this  humorous.) 

Almost  from  the  beginning  she  had  asked  me  to  come  and 
stay  with  her,  and  I  had  evaded  her,  partly  because  I  was 
still  rather  shy  of  her  class  and  felt  that  I  wouldn't  fit  in, 
partly  because  she  talked  vaguely  of  my  sharing  her  bed- 
room. I  thought  this  would  mean  sharing  her  bed,  and  I 


DING-DONG  163 

am  not  of  the  kind  that  shares  beds  easily.  It's  uncomfor- 
table, and  one  doesn't  get  air.  I  was  made  to  sleep  with 
Isabel  a  few  times  in  my  life,  and  tolerated  it,  but  with  Polly 
it  would  have  been  unjustifiable  intimacy.  But  she  invited 
me  again  during  my  reaction  against  the  unsatisfying  week 
during  which  I  had  gone  about  foolishly  with  foolish  men, 
always  about  to  commit  myself,  and  despising  myself  be- 
cause I  couldn't  bring  myself  to  it  in  the  end.  I  suddenly 
pined  for  respectable  acquaintanceship. 

Polly  was  the  only  daughter.  The  house  had  evidently 
been  cast  out  of  brick  in  a  mold  which  had  also  turned  out 
most  of  the  district.  The  front  garden  was  of  yellow  gravel, 
with  a  green  pod  in  the  middle;  in  the  middle  of  the  pod 
stood  a  tiny  sundial  made  of  pink  china.  Inside,  a  dark 
passage,  brown  paint,  red  paper,  Polly's  bicycle,  very  much 
in  the  way,  Mr.  Saleby's  hats  and  caps  on  a  hatstand.  The 
dining  room,  which  served  as  a  living  room,  was  at  the  back. 
I  remember  the  bottle  of  salad  dressing  on  the  sideboard, 
a  decadent  palm  in  a  green  pot  tied  up  with  a  red-silk  sash. 
Polly  expressed  herself  in  sashes  and  bows.  In  the  parlor, 
which  was  opened  only  on  Sundays,  the  sashes  and  bows 
were  overwhelming.  It  was  impossible  to  tie  bows  round 
the  inkstand  made  out  of  a  horse's  hoof,  the  stamp  box,  con- 
structed out  of  concrete  into  which  pieces  of  onyx,  agate, 
and  pebble  had  been  stuck,  and  round  the  glass  paper  weight 
through  which  one  could  see  a  picture  of  Queen  Victoria 
spreading  civilization,  prosperity,  and  learning  through  the 
Empire.  At  least,  I  think  so,  for  most  of  the  Empire  seemed 
to  be  on  the  right  and  had  peeled  off.  But  there  were  bows 
round  more  palms,  round  the  neck  of  the  yellow  china  cat 
with  pink  spots,  round  the  stem  of  the  lamp,  at  every  corner 
of  the  gas  bracket;  the  curtains  were  embraced  by  sashes; 
the  mantelpiece  was  shrouded  with  a  bit  of  velvet  whose 
corners  came  out  into  a  rash  of  satin  bows. 

We  had  fried  fish,  bread  and  jam  and  tea.  Efforts  were 
made  to  convert  ours  into  a  jolly  party,  but  Mrs.  Saleby,  a 
large  woman,  who  had  been  good-looking,  was  rather  too 
full  of  rectitude.  She  wore  a  lot  of  white  braid  on  the  front 


164  URSULA   TRENT 

of  her;  her  stays,  being  vast  and  broken  in  the  middle,  stuck 
out  with  extreme  angularity.  She  occupied  part  of  supper 
with  a  discussion  on  "you  young  girls,  Heaven  knows  what 
the  world's  coming  to."  She  sniffed  hard,  rather  like  Miss 
Probus,  but  in  a  less  malignant  way.  Mr.  Saleby  was  very 
depressed;  he  was  a  little  man,  with  discontented,  deep-set 
blue  eyes,  and  a  mouth  so  tight  closed  over  a  bony  chin 
that  the  lips  were  almost  invisible.  He  was  clearly  trying  to 
hold  on  to  the  situation,  and  felt  inclined  to  call  me  Miss. 
As  we  went  out  to  meet  Elfred,  who  was  to  take  us  to  a  music 
hall,  Polly  said:  "You  mustn't  mind  my  old  people.  They 
haven't  done  much  good,  and  it  tells  on  'em.  Dad  doesn't 
like  me  going  to  work.  He  wanted  me  to  be  a  lady." 

I  understood  after  a  little  that  the  old  people  felt  disgraced 
because  their  daughter  practically  kept  them,  but  soon  after 
we  were  shaking  hands  with  Elfred  who  had  the  seats,  and 
waited  for  us  in  the  lobby  of  the  Holloway  Empire.  I  had 
felt  a  little  self-conscious  about  playing  gooseberry,  and  El- 
fred too  seemed  pretty  awkward.  He  was  a  delicate  youth, 
very  thin,  with  masses  of  dark  hair  thrown  back  from  the 
brow,  and  unbrilliantined.  His  conversation  with  me  was 
elementary. 

"  It's  very  nice  of  you  to  take  me  with  you." 

"I'm  sure  it's  quite  a  pleasure." 

"I  see  there's  a  sketch  on  the  program,  isn't  there?" 

"That's  about  it." 

I  tried  to  ease  the  situation  as  we  went  up  by  hoping 
there'd  be  dancing,  because  girls  looked  their  prettiest  in 
tights.  This  paralyzed  him  with  shyness,  and  I  think  he 
was  glad  to  get  Polly  between  us.  It  was  a  good  show,  and 
I  laughed  a  good  deal,  at  first  assisted  by  Polly.  Bat  later 
on  she  grew  dreamy  and  leaned  more  and  more  on  Elfred's 
shoulder.  By  degrees  his  encircling  arm  became  obvious; 
as  the  evening  passed  on  I  was  forgotten.  They  sucked  acid 
drops  in  meditative  community;  toward  the  end  I  could  not 
be  sure  whether  they  were  kissing  for  minutes  at  a  time  or 
whether  they  had  gone  to  sleep. 

Polly  was  languid  when  we  went  to  bed.     I  was  spared 


DING-DONG  165 

sharing  and  had  a  bed  of  my  own  in  her  room.  I  was  amused 
to  discover,  when  she  undressed,  that  she  was  much  slimmer 
than  she  looked;  she  wore  three  petticoats,  of  which  one  was 
flannel;  another  caste  revelation  to  me  who  wore  but  a  film 
of  silk!  Still,  she  looked  charming,  but  all  she  did  was  to 
loosen  her  hair  and  shake  it.  She  did  not  even  brush  her 
teeth;  while  she  talked,  before  turning  out  the  gas,  I  could 
not  help  meditating  sorrowfully  over  her  future.  She  was 
twenty-five;  if  only  she  took  care  of  herself  she  would  be 
pretty  at  thirty-five.  But  all  would  go.  She'd  be  like  her 
mother,  with  bits  of  braid  on  the  front  of  her,  and  angular 
stays.  Elf  red  wouldn't  mind.  Men  of  the  Elf  red  kind 
aren't  aesthetic.  They  like  women  as  animals,  and  it  doesn't 
much  matter  what  they  look  like  so  long  as  they  can  fulfill 
their  function  as  women. 

We  talked  a  lot  next  day,  indeed  most  of  the  day.  We 
began  by  going  out  with  our  prayer  books,  to  please  Mrs. 
Saleby. 

"  I  don't  go  to  the  same  church  as  ma,"  said  Polly,  twinkling. 
"At  least  she  thinks  I  don't.  So  perhaps  we  won't  go  at  all." 

We  walked  through  the  suburban  streets  to  Highgate; 
in  the  afternoon  it  was  the  same.  We  talked  shop,  of  course. 
One  always  does,  and  I  learned  about  the  girls  things  I  did 
not  know. 

"It's  all  very  well  your  thinking  Miss  Merton  was  par- 
ticular," said  Polly.  "But  I  know  better.  There  was  a 
regular  of  hers  who  wrote  her  a  poem  once.  He  was  a  literary 
gent.  I  got  it  in  my  album  at  home.  Well,  don't  you  tell 
me  men  write  poems  for  girls  for  nothing.  She  went  to  the 
seaside  once,  for  the  week-end,  and  he  let  out  to  me  that 
he'd  been  to  the  seaside  too.  Of  course,  they  didn't  stay  at 
the  same  hotel.  Miss  Merton  was  cute." 

I  asked  about  Freda,  and  Polly  became  censorious.  "Oh, 
she!  It's  always  the  same  with  those  foreigners.  They 
aren't  particular.  I  could  have  had  Mr.  Higham  if  I'd 
wanted,  but  I  like  'em  fresh,  thank  you.  You  wouldn't 
believe  it:  the  old  thing  asked  me  to  come  and  have  dinner 
at  his  house.  He's  a  widower." 


166  URSULA   TRENT 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  said:   'Chase  me.'    And  he  did  until  he  found  Freda." 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you,  Polly,"  I  said,  "but  you're 
engaged.  You're  rather  hard  on  the  others." 

"A  girl's  got  no  call  to  make  herself  cheap,"  said  Polly. 
"I  don't  mind  a  bit  of  fun,  in  the  way  of  business,  but  it 
mustn't  go  too  far."  Yes,  she'd  be  proper  when  she  married 
Elfred.  I  questioned  her  about  Hilda,  and  Polly  grew 
respectful. 

"Oh,  well,"  she  said,  "if  you  ask  me,  she's  a  deep  one. 
She's  going  to  marry  that  sloppy-jawed  fellow  of  hers." 

"Mr.  Knighton?" 

"Yes.  Oh,  I  know  what  you  mean,  he's  a  swell,  but  there's 
lots  of  swells  get  caught  that  way.  He  didn't  know  what  he 
was  in  for.  He  thought  that  if  he  just  gave  her  a  look,  you 
know,  the  come-along-darling-and-be-happy  look,  she'd  be 
all  over  him.  But  you  watch  her.  And  watch  him;  he's 
balmy  on  her." 

Indeed,  there  was  something  desperate  and  enslaved  about 
the  young,  rather  feeble-looking  man.  He  had  hardly  spoken 
to  me.  I  discouraged  him,  for  Knighton  was  too  much  of  my 
own  kind  for  me  to  dare  to  have  much  to  do  with  him.  Be- 
sides, Hilda  could  always  draw  him  from  me  by  a  glance  of 
those  marvelous  eyes. 

In  the  evening  we  had  a  sing-song,  which  began  by  hymns 
and  quickly  degenerated.  Mrs.  Saleby  protested  when 
Elfred  insisted  on  playing  "Yaaka  Hula  Hickey  Dula,"  then 
gave  in.  I  remember  only  the  bony  chin  of  Mr.  Saleby,  who 
chummed  in  a  corner,  and  Mrs.  Saleby,  red-faced,  as  she 
separately  took  us  aside  to  tell  us  that  nobody  minded  her. 
Two  girls  and  two  young  men  had  come  in,  and  two  unat- 
tached young  men  followed.  It  was  a  very  familiar  affair, 
for  everybody  knew  the  tunes.  Somebody  sang  at  the  piano, 
and  everybody  yelled  the  chorus.  A  number  of  bottles  of 
ginger  ale  were  brought  in,  and  the  couples  grew  definite, 
linking  themselves  without  regard  for  publicity.  By  and 
by,  they  were  established,  two  couples  in  the  parlor,  em- 
bracing under  the  indifferent  eyes  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Saleby, 


DING-DONG  167 

while  Polly  and  Elf  red  withdrew  to  the  back  room.  The 
unattached  young  men  meanwhile  drew  me  into  the  hall, 
as  one  of  them  put  it,  to  show  me  over  this  desirable  residence. 
I  had  some  trouble  with  them.  They  were  very  displeasing. 
One  was  a  shopman,  the  other  something  in  the  same  ware- 
house. I  refused  to  be  treated  like  a  tidy  bit  of  goods,  and 
I  have  a  memory  of  myself  standing  away  flushed  and 
angry.  Singing  was  resumed  in  the  parlor.  I  heard  the 
chorus: 

". . .  on  the  stairs, 
Lovely  pairs.  .  . ." 

"My!"  said  one  of  my  young  men,  restoring  his  tie  to  his 
waistcoat,  "talk  about  a  blooming  hedgehog!" 


m 

"You  mustn't  mind  them,"  said  Polly,  as  she  lay  in  bed. 
"They  get  larky."  She  returned  to  her  own  affair.  "Oh, 
lor!  I  wish  I  could  get  married." 

"Why  don't  you?" 

Once  more  I  heard  of  the  need  to  establish  the  old  people, 
of  the  acquisition  of  the  trousseau,  and  gathered  that  the 
engagement  must  last  long  enough  to  satisfy  convention. 
She  exasperated  me. 

"Look  here,  do  you  care  for  your  old  people?" 

"I  don't  know.    They  don't  try  very  hard." 

"What  would  they  do  if  you  hadn't  been  born?" 

"Go  to  the  workhouse,  I  suppose." 

I  could  not  tell  her  that  I  thought  her  foolish  in  her  duti- 
fulness.  I  did  feel  that  she  was  sacrificing  herself  to  these 
disgruntled,  ungracious  old  people,  giving  her  youth  so  that 
they  might  have  grumbling,  grudging,  a  few  more  years 
which  would  rob  her  of  twenty.  I  don't  respect  old  life.  I 
was  angry  with  her  because  she  was  drifting  along,  not 
doing  anything,  not  setting  to  work  to  let  the  available  room, 
not  marrying,  and  letting  her  old  people  mess  up  her  hie. 
And  she  wasn't  thinking  of  it. 


168  URSULA   TRENT 

"I  want  twenty-five  pounds  for  a  trousseau,"  she  said. 
"Must  have  a  silk  petticoat." 

"He'll  be  fonder  of  you  than  of  your  petticoat,"  I  said. 
She  was  rather  shocked. 

"Oh,  well,"  she  summed  up,  "while  there's  life  there's 
hope." 

Then  she  told  me  what  a  fortune  teller  had  promised  her; 
she  would  certainly  marry  her  boy,  but  she  must  beware  of 
a  middle-aged  man  with  a  beard.  She  hadn't  met  him  yet. 
This  rather  worried  her. 

It  was  very  late,  and  still  we  talked,  once  more  of  Porky, 
the  customers,  the  girls  in  the  shop.  Freda  was  looking  ill, 
thin,  and  drawn  about  the  face. 

"If  you  ask  me,"  said  Polly,  "I  say  she's  copped  it."  I 
just  understood,  for  Mr.  Higham  was  only  hah*  a  mystery. 
Then  Polly  discussed  something  else;  such  a  fact  did  not 
impress  her;  in  her,  grossness  was  turned  to  innocence. 


Chapter  IX 
Julian 


IT'S  all  very  well.  There  I  was,  sneering  at  Polly  because 
she  drifted.  What  was  I  doing?  Perhaps  we  all  drift, 
perhaps  we  can  do  nothing  else.  What  did  I  do  in  the  next 
months?  First  it  was  May,  then  June,  then  July.  Still, 
there  I  was,  earning  my  two  pounds  ten  to  three  pounds  a 
week,  attracting,  repelling,  hesitating,  yielding,  holding  my- 
self back,  and  merely  growing  a  little  older.  Things  seemed 
to  happen  to  other  women.  Thus,  toward  the  end  of  July, 
a  sudden  craziness  came  over  Lawrence  Knighton.  A  special 
license  was  bought;  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  by  Polly's 
request,  we  went  to  see  Hilda  married  at  the  registry  office  of 
St.  George's,  Hanover  Square.  The  ceremony  was  short. 
Hilda  was  marvelously  cool,  certain  of  herself,  by  the  side 
of  this  half-degenerate  aristocrat.  He  did  not  seem  con- 
scious of  the  mistake  he  was  making.  But  was  he?  As  the 
simple  formalities  went  on,  I  considered  the  beautiful  Hilda, 
I  remembered  an  absurd,  romantic  allusion  she  had  made  to 
a  Russian  who  figured  in  her  past,  to  whom  she  had  refused 
herself.  I  remembered  a  little  lecture  she  read  me:  "It  does 
not  do  to  compromise  yourself  before  marriage.  That  is  not 
right.  The  clergymen  teach  us  our  duty,  and  they  know 
best.  That  is  why  I  never  go  out  with  customers,  but  always 
go  straight  home  to  my  mother.  She  has  a  shop  in  Brixton; 
she  sells  sweets  and  tobacco;  it's  a  general  shop,  you  know." 

"You  get  on?" 

"Oh  yes.  It  is  one's  duty,  is  it  not,  to  respect  one's  father 
and  one's  mother?  When  I  marry  I  shall  always  be  kind  to 
my  mother.  I  shall  go  and  see  her  every  Sunday." 

"But  if  you  don't  marry?" 


170  URSULA   TRENT 

"If  it  is  my  fate  not  to  marry,  then  I  must  bear  my  cross 
cheerfully."  I  interjected  a  question.  "Oh  no,  I  could 
never  give  myself  to  a  man  except  in  marriage.  I  have  too 
much  respect  for  my  body." 

She  was  amazing.  I  wondered  whether  her  calm  beauty 
concealed  a  violent  temperament  which  she  could  restrain 
only  by  measured  speech  and  habits. 

The  marriage  was  concluded.  She  smiled.  She  had  not 
brought  her  people  to  the  wedding;  had  she  already  de- 
veloped tact?  It  was  clever  of  her  not  to  have  a  church 
marriage,  for  this  would  make  Knighton  feel  less  married. 
What  would  become  of  her?  I  knew  her  literary  tastes.  She 
read  many  novels,  mainly  Garvice,  Ouida,  Mrs.  Albanesi,  and 
Mrs.  Henry  Wood.  It  would  be  difficult  to  civilize  her. 
But  there  was  a  foundation  in  her.  I  remember  phrases: 
"I  will  be  true  to  the  man  I  love."  "I  believe  in  One  above 
who  is  my  shepherd."  "I  will  meet  my  dear  ones  beyond 
the  grave."  I  kissed  her.  We  all  kissed  her.  Cool  and 
stately,  she  got  into  the  car  and  drove  away.  We  never  saw 
them  again.  I  heard  lately  that  Knighton's  father  is  dead. 
Hilda  is  a  peeress  now.  I  have  no  doubt  that  she  retains  the 
cool,  established  voice  that  conceals  desire.  She  is  twenty- 
eight,  at  the  height  of  her  beauty;  I  feel  that  she  consoles 
aged  Cabinet  Ministers  when  their  party  is  restless  by  telling 
them  that  every  cloud  has  a  silver  lining. 


Toward  the  end  of  July,  while  I  was  working  on  the  hands 
of  a  new  customer,  I  was  overwhelmed  by  his  beauty.  He 
lay,  negligent,  talking  very  little,  but  from  time  to  time  I 
threw  him  a  furtive  glance  which  he  met  without  excitement. 
He  looked  about  thirty,  was  rosy-faced,  with  a  rather  tip- 
tilted  nose.  Bright  blue  eyes  gleamed  under  arched  brows 
that  shone  like  bright  gold,  and  a  high  forehead  led  up  to  a 
mass  o!  wavy  golden  hair.  To  me  he  was  terribly  beautiful, 
like  one  of  those  insolent  little  plaster  Apollos.  He  had  no 
defect  at  all,  for  the  chin  was  small  but  strong;  the  lips,  red 


JULIAN  171 

and  curling,  were  cruel  and  exquisite.  The  hands  were  thin, 
but  not  weak.  As  I  manicured  him  I  thought  that  he  was 
together  effeminate  and  a  savage,  the  brooding  outcast  of  an 
imperial  race,  some  rotten  but  delicious  Hapsburg.  We 
talked  very  little  that  time,  for  his  beauty  made  me  shy. 
Negligently,  he  asked  me  a  few  questions:  What  was  my 
name?  Had  I  been  here  long?  He  did  not  seem  to  notice 
the  replies.  He  made  no  advances  to  me,  but  merely  kept 
his  eyes  upon  me  with  an  air  of  quiet  satisfaction.  When  he 
got  up  to  go  he  looked  at  his  nails  and  said:  "You  work 
well,"  and  went  out,  giving  me  sixpence,  without  promising 
to  return. 

He  must  have  disturbed  me,  for  I  could  not  forget  him  in 
the  following  days.  After  three  days  I  became  silly,  began 
to  wonder  whether  he  would  come  in  again.  He  puzzled  me, 
this  cool  beauty.  As  he  did  not  come,  I  told  myself  that  he 
was  effeminate,  that  a  man  ought  not  to  look  like  that.  I 
was  unjust,  for  his  good  looks  hid  no  weakness;  under  the 
delicacy  of  the  skin  surfaces  lay  broad  bones. 

He  disturbed  me  so  much  that  a  widower  of  forty-five, 
who  had  been  persecuting  me,  nearly  succeeded.  His  name 
was  Doctor  Kenley,  pleasant  in  a  solid  way.  For  two  months 
he  had  been  asking  me  to  dine  with  him.  I  refused.  I  don't 
know  why.  But  this  did  not  stop  him;  indeed,  his  ardor 
grew.  I  had  to  let  him  kiss  me  at  last.  It  was  easier  than 
to  go  on  struggling.  I  could  not  repel  him  quite,  for,  after 
all,  this  was  my  trade.  Was  it  because  of  Julian  that  I  went 
out  with  Doctor  Kenley?  That  after  the  theater  he  took  me 
for  a  walk  in  the  Park,  where,  to  my  horror  and  amazement, 
I  had  to  struggle  with  him?  To  threaten  to  scream?  In  this 
mood  of  disturbance,  if  a  golden  head  had  not  glowed  before 
my  eyes,  the  old  impulse  toward  dissipation  might  have  been 
too  strong  for  me.  Two  days  later  Doctor  Kenley  came  in 
and  proposed  to  me.  "You  know  I  love  you,"  he  said.  "I 
don't  pretend  I'm  a  saint.  I  don't  want  to  marry  again. 
At  least  I  didn't  think  so,  but  I  think  I  could  be  happy  with 
you  if  you  could  be  happy  with  me." 

I  would  have  said  "yes"  a  fortnight  before,  for  he  was  not 
12 


172  URSULA   TRENT 

unpleasant,  and  he  offered  me  an  independence  bought  at 
the  price  of  less  dependence  than  I  would  have  had  to  accept 
at  home.  I  didn't  then  know  what  held  me  back.  I  called 
it  my  sense  of  romance;  I  called  it  the  reluctance  to  give  up 
all  that  might  come.  I  didn't  know  that  anything  had  come. 
Only,  from  time  to  tune,  I  acknowledged  to  myself  a  great 
desire  that  this  creature  should  come  again  and  lay  upon  me 
the  negligence  of  his  bright  blue  eyes.  But  he  did  not  come. 
A  week  passed.  If  he  did  not  come  within  one  or  two  days 
he  wouldn't  come  at  all.  He  would  get  manicured  elsewhere. 
He  only  wanted  to  be  manicured. 

Then,  as  I  came  out  of  the  Express  Dairy  in  Shaftesbury 
Avenue,  I  came  against  him  in  the  crowd.  Our  eyes  crossed, 
and  he  turned,  as  if  to  look  at  me,  with  an  awful,  vacuous 
expression  in  his  eyes.  I  confess  it  to  my  shame.  I  knew 
then  that  he  was  looking  at  me  as  he  would  look  at  any 
pretty  dark  girl  in  the  street,  and  yet  I  smiled.  I  was  already 
abject,  and  I  didn't  know  it,  because  I  was  already  happy. 

He  recognized  me  at  once.  Then:  "Oh,"  he  said,  and, 
with  pretty  cunning,  added,  "I  didn't  think  you'd  know  me." 
What  a  fool  I  was  to  be  charmed  by  such  fraudulent  humility, 
but  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  stood  stupidly  before  him,  looking 
upon  the  red  lips  that  fell  away  a  little  from  the  white  teeth. 

"That  reminds  me,"  he  went  on,  "I  want  to  be  mani- 
cured." He  held  out  a  perfect  hand.  "Heavens!  What 
talons!  Could  you  take  me  now,  Miss  ..." 

"Trent,"  I  said.  "Yes,  if  you  like.  I've  no  appointment 
till  three  thirty,  so  I  can  give  you  an  hour." 

I  saw  an  expression  cross  his  face  that  I  did  not  under- 
stand. It  has  taken  five  years  to  show  me  how  foolish  was 
my  reply.  Already  I  was  offering  him  an  hour  when  I  should 
have  told  him  that  perhaps  I  could  squeeze  him  in  for  twenty 
minutes. 

m 

And  so  it  began.  Other  things  happened.  Freda  went 
away  suddenly,  making  no  secret  of  the  fact  that  she  was 
going  to  have  a  child,  that  Mr.  Higham  was  going  to  look 


JULIAN  173 

after  her.  She  went  out  silent,  undisturbed,  committing 
herself  to  drifting  life.  Those  cold,  silent  girls,  they  are  the 
strongest.  It's  people  like  gabbling  Polly,  people  like  me, 
who  give  themselves  away.  Out  of  us  are  made  the  macadam- 
ized roads  that  men  tread.  I  wouldn't  acknowledge  it  to 
myself  then,  though  the  feeling  screamed  itself  hoarse  hi 
some  secret  recess  of  my  personality.  I  cared  for  that  man. 
It  was  only  at  the  end  of  August,  when  he  came  back  from  a 
holiday,  that  I  grew  sure  of  it,  for  I  realized  what  that  period 
of  loneliness  had  meant.  It  was  not  a  progressive  growth. 
Never  before  had  I  met  a  man  who  neither  courted  me  nor 
let  me  alone.  I  had  been  used  all  my  life  to  easy  comradeship 
with  the  brothers  of  my  girl  friends,  to  men  who  showed  no 
sign  of  caring  for  me;  and  I  was  used  to  men  like  Oswald,' 
Frank  Coriesmore,  Doctor  Upnor,  Philip,  the  customers  at 
Denman  Street,  who  in  no  wise  concealed  that  they  desired 
me  as  wife  or  lover.  Julian  was  not  like  that;  he  fell  into  no 
class;  he  was  cool  and  self-absorbed,  and  lay  in  his  loveliness, 
resting  upon  me  a  contented  gaze.  That  would  have  sug- 
gested indifference  if,  at  our  third  meeting,  he  had  not  asked 
who  I  was,  where  I  came  from,  and  whether  I  was  in  love 
with  anybody.  He  asked  this  so  calmly  that  I  flushed  with 
anger.  He  didn't  seem  to  care  whether  I  was  in  love  with 
anybody,  and  yet  he  was  asking  me  intimate  questions.  It 
is  evidence  that  already  I  cared  for  him  very  much  without 
knowing  it,  that  I  told  him  almost  the  truth  about  myself. 
I  did  not  conceal  my  county  birth,  though  I  did  hide  my 
father's  name.  It  was  nearly  a  year  since  I  had  told  a  man 
the  whole  truth.  In  return,  he  gave  a  certain  amount  of 
confidence.  "My  name's  Julian  Quin.  You'll  never  guess 
my  occupation." 

I  hesitated.  "You  might  be  an  actor,"  I  said.  He  shook 
his  head,  smiling.  "Or  a  writer.  You  don't  paint,  do  you?" 
Still  he  smiled  negatively.  "Something  artistic,  anyhow." 

He  laughed,  squeezing  my  hand.  "Thank  you.  At  last 
I'm  recognized,  though  mine  is  the  most  ignoble  of  the  arts. 
I  design  frocks  at  the  Maison  Dromina." 

I  stared  at  him  incredulously.    "Frocks!"  I  gasped.    I 


174  URSULA    TRENT 

knew  men  designed  frocks,  but  I  imagined  a  different  kind 
of  man,  some  thing  more  ladylike,  scented,  who  wore  tur- 
quoise rings,  not  at  all  this  beautiful  but  vigorous-looking 
undergraduate.  Also,  the  reputation  of  the  Maison  Dromina 
made  me  respectful.  So  I  said: 

"I  say,  that's  very  clever  of  you.  And  at  the  Maison 
Dromina,  too !  That  sounds  very  successful  at  your  age." 

"Oh,  I'm  not  as  young  as  I  look.  I'm  thirty-one.  Excesses 
preserve  one's  looks." 

"Do  you  go  in  for  excesses?"  I  said.  What  a  new  Ursula! 
A  year  before,  this  would  have  made  me  shy.  Now  I  was 
conscious  only  of  a  little  disappointment. 

"Of  course,"  he  said.  "What  else  is  there  to  do?  Besides, 
it  goes  with  my  trade;  it's  my  job  to  idolize  women;  I  can't 
make  a  frock  for  a  woman  unless  I'm  a  little  in  love  with  her. 
In  these  modern  times,  you  know,  and  in  these  modern  frocks, 
none  can  dress  who  would  not  undress."  I  smiled.  He 
amused  me.  The  candor  of  the  blue  eyes  clashed  with  the 
lips  that  lacked  innocence.  He  went  on  talking.  He  loved 
his  occupation,  I  could  see;  it  was  indeed  to  him  an  art,  and 
a  little  more,  an  intellectual  pastime. 

"We  designers,  you  know,  we're  like  barristers,  in  a  way, 
aesthetic  barristers.  We  both  have  to  make  the  best  of  a 
bad  case.  The  barrister  is  better  off;  he  appeals  to  a  jury 
of  men;  our  frocks  go  before  a  jury  of  women,  much  less 
merciful  and  much  better  informed.  You  may  laugh,  but  I 
love  taking,  let  us  say,  the  latest  peeress,  married  long  before 
her  husband  looked  forward  to  his  coronet.  She  is,  well  .  .  . 
what  our  American  friends  call  the  broad,  elemental  propo- 
sition. She  is  colored,  corpulent,  kindly;  she  has  had  her- 
self hennaed  and  marcel-waved.  She  turns  her  toes  out;  she 
puts  her  feet  down  heel  and  toe  together — plump!  She 
wants  to  put  her  arms  akimbo,  but  pulls  herself  together 
quickly.  And  she  says:  'Oh,  Mr.  Quin,  I  saw  Miss  Teddie 
Gerard  the  other  day,  having  lunch  at  the  Ritz.  She  was 
wearing  a  little  mole-colored  coat  and  skirt  trimmed  with 
skunk,  with  a  high  collar,  Mr.  Quin,  that  fell  away  just  like 
this.  The  skirt  fell  just  like  this;  I  think  it  must  have  been 


JULIAN  175 

cut  on  the  cross.'  She  sketches  with  stubby  fingers.  Can  I 
make  her  a  little  like  Miss  Teddie  Gerard?  I  can't,  but  I 
can  make  her  so  that  Sheffield  wouldn't  know  her.  She 
enters  jet;  she  goes  out  brocade." 

"You're  a  conjurer." 

He  was  not  listening,  but  drugging  himself  with  words. 
"  Brocade !  What  a  lovely  word.  Flame  with  a  gold  pattern ! 
That's  brocade.  Or  powder  blue  with  silver  flowers.  One 
can't  help  being  a  beau  in  brocade.  I'd  like  to  use  other 
stuffs,  paisley,  paduasoy,  moire,  crash,  and  bombazine.  I'd 
make  something  of  bombazine,  something  with  paniers 
sticking  out  .  .  .  as  if  made  of  metal.  I'm  so  sick  of  crepes, 
and  chiffons,  and  ninons,  and  those  bastard  gabardines." 

"You're  an  artist,"  I  said. 

He  looked  at  me,  flattered.  "I'd  like  to  dress  you.  Yes, 
I'd  like  to  make  you  an  afternoon  frock." 

"What  color?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I'd  have  to  dream  of  you  a  little. 
It's  so  obvious  that  you  should  wear  a  rich  garnet,  or  a 
claret,  so  obvious  that  it  can't  be  right.  To  be  well  dressed 
a  woman  must  wear  the  unobviously  obvious  color.  I  shall 
have  to  dream  of  you."  I  flushed;  he  saw  it,  for,  suddenly 
bending  forward  a  little,  he  added,  "It  will  be  easy." 

"Don't  be  absurd."  He  said  no  more;  the  manicure  was 
ending.  But  he  looked  at  me,  holding  my  hands,  and,  with 
a  little  smile,  got  up  and  went  away. 

Every  week  we  grew  a  little  more  intimate.  When  he  said 
good-by  to  me,  in  August,  before  going  for  a  three  weeks' 
holiday,  he  said. 

"I  wish  I  wasn't  going  away."  He  hesitated.  "Still/I'm 
glad  I'm  going,  because  I  shall  look  forward  to  seeing  you 
again."  I  said  nothing.  I  suppose  I  looked  silly.  He  took 
my  hand,  looked  at  it  with  critical  pleasure,  and  I  let  him,  for 
I  trusted  my  strong  dark  hands.  "You've  got  good  hands," 
he  said,  and,  bending,  kissed  the  inside  of  my  wrist.  It  shook 
me,  this  slight  caress,  so  little  and  so  much,  though  at  once 
he  released  me,  made  no  effort  to  pursue  his  advantage. 

Those  three  weeks!    After  a  while  I  was  not  only  missing 


176  URSULA   TRENT 

him,  but  wondering  what  was  he  doing.  Such  a  man,  who 
loved  women,  could  not  remain  unstirred,  for  they  must 
pursue  him.  Had  he  gone  away  alone?  It  did  not  even 
strike  me  to  wonder  whether  he  was  married.  Sometimes  I 
built  with  a  sort  of  agony  a  picture  of  Julian,  tweeded,  in 
waders,  standing  in  a  Scottish  burn,  with  some  hateful 
young  woman,  her  cheeks  bright  in  the  crisp  sunshine,  de- 
voted, asking  him  to  put  on  a  fly  for  her,  being  clumsy,  being 
taught,  being  shown  how  to  cast  by  two  strong  white  hands 
that  mingled  with  hers  upon  the  rod.  She  must  throw  herself 
into  his  arms;  she  couldn't  help  it.  I  wept.  I  wasn't  going 
away,  for  I  wasn't  entitled  yet  to  the  fortnight's  holiday 
given  by  Porky  after  a  year.  Besides,  where  should  I  have 
gone  to?  Could  I  have  revenged  myself  with  a  City  clerk 
upon  a  pier?  I  was  unreasonably  jealous  of  this  man  who 
had  promised  me  no  faith.  Perhaps  that  was  why.  If  he 
had  not  promised  himself  to  me,  it  was  that  he  did  not  want 
me.  So  I  had  to  reassure  myself,  by  convincing  myself  that 
I  was  still  desirable.  I  thought  of  Vera  Westley,  and  for  a 
moment  nearly  swayed  into  her  mode  of  life.  I  went  to  see 
her,  but  she  was  gone.  The  porter  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
her.  That  shocked  me  a  little,  for  that  life  meant  that  you 
were  swallowed  up,  just  a  little  animal.  But  that  was 
tempting,  too,  to  be  swallowed  up,  to  be  a  dull  beast  of 
pleasure,  to  see  between  men  no  more  difference  than  did 
Vera,  see  them  as  funny  ones  or  sloppy  ones.  A  meeting 
with  Monica,  in  Piccadilly,  drove  me  farther.  It  was  the 
1st  of  August;  she  was  passing  through,  on  her  way  to 
Cowes,  where  her  husband,  the  diplomat,  had  his  yacht. 
She  was  a  different  Monica,  more  assured,  more  certain 
that  all  was  for  the  best,  that  nobody  need  worry.  She 
talked  a  great  deal  about  herself,  about  the  things  she  must 
buy,  the  yacht  and  its  comic  captain,  her  husband,  who  was 
a  dear.  I  saw  her  eying  my  clothes,  and  it  was  agony,  for  I 
wras  wearing  a  rather  faded  blouse,  and  the  awful  linen  coat 
and  skirt  which  was  bad  enough  when  it  was  new.  Now  its 
original  butcher  blue  had  come  down  to  a  sort  of  dirt  color. 
But  she  told  me  a  little  about  my  old  circle. 


JULIAN  177 

"We  met  your  father  and  mother  the  other  day,  when  we 
were  staying  with  the  Eddertons.  They  were  quite  well." 

"Did  they  talk  about  me?" 

"No."  She  hesitated.  "I  don't  want  to  say  it,  Ursula, 
but  it's  as  if  you  were  dead  to  them." 

"I'm  sorry,  but  it  can't  be  helped." 

"I  know.  I  don't  want  to  interfere.  Lady  Trent  looks 
much  older,  you  know." 

"You  mean  I  ought  to  go  back?" 

"Just  as  you  like."  Then  again  she  talked  of  the  things 
she  must  buy. 

IV 

Little  things  happened.  Freda  was  replaced  by  a  girl 
called  Pat,  a  fat,  jolly  little  gad,  with  small  eyes,  who  became 
immensely  popular.  She  amazed  me  because  her  conversa- 
tion was  made  up  of  unreproduceable  coarsenesses.  She  used 
words  I'd  never  heard  before,  and  openly  said  that  she  was 
working  only  because  that  brought  in  so  much  a  week,  and 
so  she  could  pick  and  choose  among  the  boys.  My  own  im- 
pression is  that  she  may  have  picked,  but  she  never  chose. 
These  influences  combined,  and  one  night  I  went  out  with  a 
very  pleasant  young  barrister,  determined  to  refuse  him 
nothing,  I  don't  know  why.  Perhaps  because  everybody 
seemed  to  do  that.  But  I  couldn't.  It  wasn't  Julian.  It's 
something  else  keeps  me  straight.  I'm  a  damned  lady. 
I've  the  worst  traditions,  and  I'm  infirm  of  purpose.  Loose- 
ness isn't  natural  to  me;  it's  untraditional.  I  can  remember 
his  surprise  when  at  last  I  repulsed  him.  It  seemed  so  late 
to  stop  short. 

Julian  came  in  without  warning  me,  and  he  had  to  wait. 
Pat  put  her  head  into  my  cubicle  to  tell  me  that  there  was 
somebody  waiting  for  me,  and  I  looked  out  from  my  customer 
to  say  that  I  should  be  ready  in  three  minutes.  It  was  he. 
I  had  to  smile,  to  look  easy,  with  twenty  horrible  minutes  of 
work  before  me,  over  the  hands  of  a  man  from  the  City  who 
was  giving  no  trouble  but  was  trying  to  explain  the  mecha- 
nism of  the  exchange.  Why  he  thought  he  ought  to  explain 


178  URSULA   TRENT 

the  mechanism  of  exchange,  I  don't  know,  except  that  it 
was  his  business  and  his  hobby.  So  I  said  "yes>"  and 
"no,"  and  "how  very  interesting,"  my  mind  whirling.  He 
was  waiting  for  me.  What  would  he  say? 

"Gently,  gently,"  said  the  man,  as  I  dug  the  knife  under 
the  cuticle. 

"Sorry."  Had  absence  made  a  difference?  Was  he  coming 
back  loving  me? 

"Could  you  get  that  bit  of  hard  skin  out?"  asked  my 
customer.  I  tried.  I  hated  him.  I  hoped  that  the  scissors 
would  hurt  him.  Then  I  ran  short  of  emery  boards,  and 
ran  out,  having  opportunity  to  ask  Julian  if  he  had  had  a 
good  time.  At  last  it  was  done,  though  my  customer  grum- 
bled about  bad  polishing,  and  Julian  came  in.  He  terrified 
me.  I  was  glad  of  the  chance  to  go  out  and  get  some  more 
hot  water;  a  moment  to  pull  myself  together.  When  I  came 
back  he  was  waiting  patiently,  sunburnt,  and  more  than 
ever  handsome. 

"Well,"  I  said,  brightly,  "so  you're  back.  Back  to  stuffy 
old  London."  I  became  entirely  idiotic  and  quoted:  "Back, 
back  to  the  office  he  went;  the  manager  was  a  perfect  gent." 

He  let  me  go  on  for  a  little  time  without  speaking,  only 
resting  upon  me  his  soft  glance  and  his  smile.  Then,  having 
filed  the  finger  nails  of  his  left  hand,  I  was  indicating  the  bowl 
of  hot  water.  He  released  himself,  very  calmly  took  my  head 
between  his  hands,  looking  into  my  eyes,  as  if  with  a  delibera- 
tion, half  sensual,  half  cruel,  he  intentionally  deferred  his 
pleasure.  I  was  fascinated  in  his  grasp.  I  remember  that  I 
wanted  to  resist  while  there  was  still  time.  But  one  can't, 
one  can't.  So  I  let  him  draw  me  closer  and  kiss  me.  He 
held  me  so  for  a  moment,  his  lips  dwelling  upon  mine,  less 
with  fever  than  with  discrimination.  It  seemed  interminable, 
this  penetrating  caress;  it  held  an  emotion  that  I  had  not 
known  before;  it  was  half  a  token  of  love,  hah*  a  work  of  art. 
I  know  that  now,  but  then  I  felt  only  the  rush  of  my  own 
emotions.  If  I  had  not  been  a  Trent  I  would  then  have 
flung  my  arms  round  his  neck  in  complete  abandonment. 

He  did  not  abuse  his  advantage,  that  time  or  the  next. 


JULIAN  179 

This  disappointed  me  a  little,  for  now  I  confessed  to  myself 
that  to  him  I  would  refuse  nothing.  But  I  was  glad,  too,  that 
he  did  not  think  me  a  subject  for  casual  kisses.  I  did  not 
understand  his  capacity  for  the  abstinence  that  enhances 
pleasure.  I  wondered  why  he  did  not  kiss  me  again.  Had 
I  disappointed  him?  Then  he  told  me  more  about  himself. 
He  had  been  married  for  nine  years,  to  a  woman  slightly 
older  than  himself.  They  hadn't  lived  together  for  several 
years.  They  didn't  get  on.  To  a  timid  question  of  mine  he 
replied:  "Oh,  it  was  my  fault.  I  may  be  a  nice  lover,  but 
I'm  a  rotten  husband.  I  could  have  been  a  good  husband 
to  a  harem,  but  not  to  a  harem  of  one.  At  least,  not  the  one 
I've  got." 

"Is  she  pretty?" 

"Yes.  It  isn't  that.  Only  to  me  she  was  the  end  of 
adventure." 

"But  won't  you  ever  get  tired  of  adventure?' 

"Perhaps.  Not  yet.  I'd  like  to.  You  know,  Ursula, 
you  think  we  men  are  rotters,  and  that  we  gad  about  from 
woman  to  woman  just  for  fun.  It's  not  that.  What  we  want 
is  the  woman  who  can  make  us  forget  adventure.  She's  got 
to  be  adventure." 

After  a  long  time  I  replied:  "It  doesn't  sound  easy.  I 
wonder  whether  any  of  us  could  do  that.  I  don't  think  I 
could  make  a  man  forget  adventure." 

He  looked  at  me  critically.  "I  don't  know.  You're  very 
lovely.  With  those  slumbering  eyes,  that  mouth  that  calls, 
that  figure  fit  for  French  dressing.  Oh,  you're  very  lovely." 
He  did  not  seem  to  remember  that  he  had  kissed  me  a  week 
before,  and  this  was  wounding.  He  was  impersonal;  he 
was  thinking  of  himself.  "  I've  tried  to  get  her  to  divorce  me, 
but  she  won't.  She's  a  Catholic,  you  see.  She  lives  at  Hove, 
and  from  time  to  time  she  writes  to  me  that  I  shall  always 
find  her  waiting  when  I  come." 

"She  loves  you,  then,"  I  said,  experiencing  a  pang. 

"I  don't  know.  She's  so  keen  on  doing  what's  right,  that 
I  don't  know  whether  she's  keen  on  doing  what  she  wants. 
Anyhow,  I  haven't  seen  her  for  five  years.  I've  tried  and 


180  URSULA   TRENT 

tried  to  get  her  to  divorce  me.  But  she  won't.  So  we  must 
pad  along  like  that." 

This  confidence  oppressed  me.  It  was  shattering.  I  had 
no  thought  of  marrying  him,  but  it  was  dreadful  to  see  that 
it  was  impossible.  It  would  have  been  better  if  it  had  been 
possible.  I  could  have  hoped.  At  bottom,  I  knew  that 
what  troubled  me  was  my  class  cowardice.  If  he  had  been 
a  bachelor  I  could  have  given  way  to  him,  telling  myself 
that  this  might  be  the  prelude  to  marriage;  that  would 
have  been  an  excuse.  But  if  he  could  not  marry  me,  I  had 
to  face  my  situation,  to  tell  myself  that  when  he  advanced 
farther,  which  he  must  do,  then  I  must  make  up  my  mind 
yes  or  no.  I  wasn't  used  to  making  up  my  mind;  that  sort 
of  thing  was  hardly  done. 

So  I  did  not  make  up  my  mind,  but  drifted  on  into  Sep- 
tember, in  the  grasp  of  a  preoccupation  so  intense  that  every- 
thing else  was  dwarfed.  Horrible  things  floated  in  my 
inner  consciousness.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  my  father 
wrote  me  a  savage  letter,  giving  me  one  last  chance  to  live 
a  home  life,  and  informing  me  that  if  I  didn't  come  back 
within  a  fortnight  he  was  going  to  cut  me  out  of  his  will. 
He  ended: 

...  I  don't  want  to  seem  unkind,  but  I'm  not  going  to  stand 
this  any  longer.  Come  back  or  be  cut  off.  Let  that  be  clear.  And 
I  am  not  going  to  argue  about  it. 

Yours 

WILLIAM  R.  TRENT. 

"Yours"!  Papa  wrote  me  "Yours"!— not  even  "Yours 
affectionately."  This  ought  to  have  upset  me  dreadfully, 
this  loss  of  some  one  that  was  and  is  dear  to  me.  But  it 
didn't  matter;  I  was  wholly  in  the  grasp  of  another  affection. 
Also,  I  didn't  believe  that  I  should  be  cut  off,  not  really. 
I  still  belonged  to  the  class  that  has  money,  where  eventually 
all  the  women  have  the  use  of  money.  I  couldn't  conceive  my- 
self deprived  of  my  inheritance;  that  didn't  happen  to  Trent 
women.  This  anxiety  flowed  away.  Julian  asked  me  to  come 
to  dinner  at  his  flat  in  Dover  Street,  suggesting  that  the  res- 


JULIAN  181 

taurant  cooked  fairly  well.  I  hesitated,  refused,  accepting 
the  alternative  suggestion  that  we  should  dine  at  the  Berk- 
eley. I  knew  what  I  was  doing  .  .  .  Freda  was  gone,  living 
under  the  protection  of  Mr.  Higham,  and  no  doubt  her  child 
would  soon  be  born;  Pat  had  aroused  me  to  another  danger, 
to  evils  that  seem  incredible  when  one  reads  of  them  in  the 
newspapers,  that  can  afflict  only  other  people,  not  real  people. 
I  knew  all  that,  and  I  went,  shrinking,  because  I  had  to  go, 
because  my  heart  ached  in  general  and  ached  for  him.  And 
he  was  exquisite  to  me.  Foreseeing  that  my  frock  might  be 
shabby,  he  brought  with  him  in  a  parcel  an  opera  cloak  which 
he  handed  me  as  we  went  into  the  Berkeley,  telling  me  to 
put  it  on  in  the  ladies'  cloakroom,  if  I  liked  it. 

"It's  a  chilly  evening,"  he  said,  providing  the  excuse  as 
well  as  the  cloak. 

Seated  opposite  him,  my  battered  old  evening  frock  half 
concealed  by  the  sumptuous  cloak  made  of  purple,  almost 
black  velvet,  and  heavily  fringed  in  gold,  I  felt  regal.  Fringes 
were  in,  and  I  had  a  fringe.  I  felt  secure.  He  was  respectful 
and  charming,  revealing  himself  more  and  more.  He  was 
earning  fifteen  hundred  a  year;  his  wife  had  her  own  money. 
He  only  wanted  to  be  happy,  and  he  demanded  nothing 
from  me. 

We  came  to  an  understanding  the  following  Saturday. 
He  fetched  me  as  the  shop  closed,  taking  me  to  lunch  at  the 
Carl  ton.  After  that  we  walked  without  intention  into  Green 
Park,  and  away  through  Belgravia,  until  we  reached  the 
Embankment  and  crossed  into  Battersea  Park.  Many  teams 
of  boys  were  still  playing  cricket;  a  few  kicking  footballs 
about.  Couples  passed  us,  arms  about  waists.  We  went  in 
a  boat  on  the  ornamental  water;  as  we  passed  under  the 
overhanging  arch  of  the  trees,  the  pale-silver  sunshine  of  the 
autumn  made  dappled  shadows  on  my  frock.  It  was  an 
idyllic  afternoon;  the  hint  of  death  in  the  leaves  that  rustled 
upon  the  paths  made  life  more  vivid.  We  went  into  the 
aviary,  along  the  crooked  path  that  wanders  among  the 
rough  palings.  We  looked  at  the  Japanese  pheasant.  "  What 
clothes ! "  said  Julian.  The  gorgeous  bird  considered  us  for  a 


182  URSULA   TRENT 

while.  He  was  magnificent,  with  his  deep-blue  and  scarlet 
head,  his  blue  breast  and  crimson  legs,  his  majestic  coat  of 
silver  white,  ending  in  a  silvery  moss  of  tail.  His  little 
brown  wives  stood  respectfully  a  yard  away.  Then,  for  a 
while,  we  stood  before  the  raven  that  shone  as  if  enameled. 
I  poked  a  stick  through  the  bars  of  his  cage  for  him  to  play 
with.  As  I  bent,  smiling  at  the  black  tongue  that  curled 
angrily  in  the  snapping  bill,  I  felt  Julian's  arm  about  my 
shoulders  and  stood  up,  suddenly  grave.  ...  I  am  conscious 
of  a  scene.  The  fir  trees,  hanging  gray-leaved  and  dark. 
The  light  foliage  of  the  birches  shivers  in  the  autumn  air. 
I  am  in  his  arms.  The  clear  blue  of  his  eyes  questions.  He 
says :  "  I  love  you.  I  did  from  the  first  moment.  Throw  all 
this  up  and  come  to  me  and  be  my  girl." 

I  don't  quite  understand.    I  say,  "How?** 

"We  can't  marry,  but  I  can't  do  without  you.  Come  and 
live  with  me?" 

I  have  an  awful  sense  of  finalities.  I  daren't  and  I  must. 
So  I  gain  a  little  time.  "Do  you  really  want  me?  "  I  murmur. 

"I  want  only  you,"  he  replies,  and  kisses  my  unresisting 
mouth. 

Then  once  more  I  have  that  sense  of  the  film  of  life  un- 
rolling, so  swiftly  it  bewilders  me.  I  have  changed  my  habita- 
tion. It  is  Sunday  morning,  and  the  bells  of  St.  George's  are 
calling  to  matins  a  scanty  and  languid  flock.  I  look  at  this 
beautiful  creature  by  my  side.  It  had  to  be.  Yes,  he  is 
mysterious  and  content.  But  is  he  content?  I  feel  unworthy, 
and  so  bend  down  and  whisper,  "Are  you  disappointed?" 
He  draws  me  to  him  to  caress  and  reassure  me,  and  because 
he  does  so  I  am  reassured.  Never  did  I  ask  myself  whether 
Philip  was  disappointed.  I  was  conscious  only  of  my  own 
disappointment.  From  him  I  had  taken  without  ruth.  To 
Julian  I  wanted  to  give,  and  I  feared  that  I  had  not  enough 
to  give. 

"And  are  you  disappointed?"  he  murmurs.  I  kiss  him 
then,  abased  and  protesting.  He  must  not  blaspheme  his 
own  name. 


PART  HI.     THE  FLAT  IN  DOVER  STREET 


Chapter  I 
Emotions 


EMOTION?  I  wonder!  In  times  like  those  one  hardly 
has  time  for  emotion.  Too  much  happens.  One's  too 
excited,  frightened,  proud,  ashamed.  It's  marriage  without 
its  publicity,  its  definition.  For  a  girl  like  me  to  go  and  live 
with  a  man  whom  she  couldn't  marry  meant  that  I  must 
hide  an  action  that  could  not  be  hidden.  Other  things  were 
happening.  I  had  to  move,  to  resign  my  position,  and  to  do 
this  without  giving  myself  away  to  Mrs.  Witham,  to  Polly 
and  Pat.  My  letters  would  have  to  go  somewhere;  I  had 
to  convey  to  Mrs.  Witham  that  I'd  become  better  off,  to 
Polly  that  I  was  taking  a  job  as  secretary  to  another  lady 
novelist  who  lived  in  Dover  Street.  Somebody  would  meet 
somebody;  the  stories  would  clash.  Somebody  would  charge 
me  with  lying,  and  I  would  tell  a  third  lie.  Mamma  would 
write  to  me,  and,  one  day,  by  mistake,  I  would  use  Julian's 
paper.  Mrs.  Witham  wouldn't  forward  forever.  Oh  dear! 

And  the  horrid  sense  of  publicity!  It  was  all  very  well  for 
Julian  to  tell  the  porter  who  brought  up  my  trunks  not  to 
knock  his  wife's  dressing  case  about;  it  was  all  very  well  for 
the  porter  to  say,  "I'll  be  careful,  sir."  But  was  the  porter 
deceived?  Julian  had  lived  a  year  in  that  flat.  Did  not  the 
porter  wonder  why  Mrs.  Quin  had  never  appeared  before, 
a  young  and  pretty  Mrs.  Quin,  without  whom  Julian  seemed 
to  have  done  very  well?  Also — and  this  thought  was  ravag- 
ing— was  it  credible  that  nobody  else  had  ever  visited  that 
flat  during  that  year?  Perhaps  not  nominal  Mrs.  Quins,  but 
quite  enough  to  make  me,  the  Mrs.  Quin,  if  he  accepted  me  as 
such,  an  object  for  commiseration. 

Still,  as  I  set  out  my  bottles  on  the  dressing  table  I  re- 
flected that  the  porter  was  a  man,  and  that  men  are  easily 


186  URSULA   TRENT 

deceived.  But  a  devilish  chambermaid  came  in  to  ask  me 
if  she  could  do  anything  for  me.  She  seemed  interested  in 
me.  She  was  a  nice-looking,  rather  bold  girl  with  carroty 
hair.  Within  two  days  she  called  me  Mrs.  Quin  instead  of 
Ma'am.  If  I  had  encouraged  her,  we  should  have  exchanged 
love  memories.  She  unpacked  for  me,  while  I  fussed  in  the 
wardrobe;  my  instinct  told  me  that  as  she  worked,  the  girl 
was  examining  my  clothes.  I  could  deceive  the  porter,  but 
I  couldn't  deceive  a  woman.  She  knew  what  Julian's 
clothes  cost;  she'd  make  no  mistake  about  my  things,  and 
especially  my  boots  and  shoes.  As  I  set  out  my  poor 
trousseau  I  hated  the  carroty-haired  girl;  this  service  flat 
chambermaid,  she  lived  among  Dover  Street  underclothes; 
she  knew  that  my  things  were  cheap  and  poor;  no  doubt 
she  was  counting  the  ladders  in  my  stockings,  or,  worse,  she 
was  noting  with  contempt  that  some  of  them  were  hole- 
proof.  Of  course  she  was  also  turning  my  gloves  inside 
out  to  note  that  they  have  been  cleaned. 

" That's  all  right,"  I  said,  savagely,  turning  round.  "Don't 
trouble;  I'll  finish." 

"Very  well,  ma'am,"  said  the  girl,  surprised.  She  stood 
there  for  a  moment,  expecting  me  to  talk,  smiled  pleasantly, 
and  went  out. 

I  was  very  unfair  to  the  chambermaid,  whose  name  was 
Beatrice  and  whom  I  learned  to  call  B.  She  was  entirely 
nice,  and  if  I  had  known  her  then  as  well  as  I  came  to  later 
I  shouldn't  have  bothered,  for  Beatrice  had  been  in  service 
in  this  block  for  four  years;  she  had  unpacked  many  trunks, 
and  had  seen  clothes  of  all  kinds,  Callot,  John  Barker, 
Bourne  &  Hollingsworth,  and  Stagg  &  Mantle;  she  had 
washed  a  chemise  for  a  young  lady  who  had  to  stay  in  bed 
while  it  dried,  because  she  had  no  other.  A  Russian  princess 
had  given  her  a  chinchilla  muff  because  she  was  bored  with  the 
color.  I  was  not  fit  to  astonish  a  service  flat  chambermaid. 


Julian  overlaid  all  that.    He  was  charming;  he  did  every- 
thing for  me  except  what  would  have  compromised  me. 


EMOTIONS  187 

Thus,  he  left  it  to  me  to  settle  Porky  and  Mrs.  Witham,  but 
when  I  arrived  in  the  early  afternoon  I  found  a  fire  burning, 
a  large  bunch  of  roses  in  a  vase,  and  a  new  toothbrush  in  a 
little  parcel  marked:  "Toothbrush  for  Ursula,  because  one 
always  forgets  it."  I  was  very  shy.  I  was  in  a  sense  newly 
wed.  When  I  went  out  to  look  at  the  shops  I  was  very 
frightened.  Suppose  somebody  met  me?  What  should  I 
say?  I  knew  very  few  people,  but  eventually  I  must  meet 
somebody.  Dover  Street  is  a  bad  place  to  hide  in.  I  realized 
then  how  completely  I  had  cut  myself  off  from  the  estab- 
lished, ordinary  things.  This  wasn't  an  intrigue;  this  wasn't 
one  of  the  little  affairs  that  Isabel  probably  indulged  in;  it 
was  something  radical,  and  irrevocable.  My  relation  with 
Philip,  that  was  not  important,  for  it  was  secret;  I  mean  it 
was  important  only  to  me,  to  my  mental  development,  and 
the  world  would  never  bother  about  it,  provided  I  grew  rich 
and  did  not  force  the  world  to  notice  it.  I  could  have  had 
affairs  with  a  dozen  Philips  in  a  single  year,  if  they  proved 
reasonably  discreet,  if  I  held  my  tongue,  didn't  dress  out- 
rageously, and  was  not  seen  in  extreme  clothes  too  often  at 
too  extreme  places.  Nobody  would  have  cared.  I  was 
young  enough,  pretty  enough,  well  born  enough  to  be  given 
the  benefit  of  the  doubt  by  a  world  that  has  no  doubts  at  all. 
I  could  have  been  like  Vera  Westley  if  I'd  dressed  quietly,  and 
at  the  end  married  respectably  and  gone  on  the  Committee 
of  the  Society  for  the  Moralization  of  Modern  Times. 

But  this  thing  was  different.  My  alliance  with  Julian,  that 
was  so  much  franker  than  my  folly  with  Philip,  so  much 
more  decent,  so  much  more  inevitable,  because  Julian 
couldn't  marry  me,  this,  the  world  had  to  see  it.  The  world 
had  to  have  its  nose  put  into  it  and,  willy-nilly,  had  to  sniff 
with  disgust. 

"I've  done  it,"  I  thought.  "Now  I'm  an  outcast,  an  out- 
law. I'm  excommunicate,  and  neither  sackcloth  nor  ashes 
will  ever  get  me  back."  It  was  lovely.  To  go  along  Picca- 
dilly carrying  a  load  of  crime  for  which  you  can't  be  arrested. 
You  see,  I'm  not  a  nice  girl,  not  really.  I  don't  have  proper 
feelings  at  all.  I  ought  to  have  gone  to  Julian  tearful  and 
13 


188  URSULA   TRENT 

carried  away  by  my  better  judgment,  by  the  extremity  of  my 
feelings,  and  I  ought  to  have  soothed  my  remorse  by  telling 
myself,  "Perhaps  I  maybe  forgiven  because  I  loved  much." 
Well,  no;  I  did  feel  lowered;  I  couldn't  break  down  the  old 
ways  of  thinking;  I  knew  that  if  I  met  Monica,  or  my  sister, 
I'd  feel  awkward;  but  I  couldn't  quite  dull  the  glow  of  my 
adventure.  All  through  my  embarrassment,  my  absolute 
fear,  ran  a  vengeful  streak:  "Take  that,  Burleigh  Abbas! 
I've  escaped  your  plaster  of  Paris.  I'm  going  to  the  devil, 
I  suppose,  but  I'd  rather  go  to  him  than  back  to  Burleigh 
Abbas." 

No,  I'm  not  a  nice  girl.  I  couldn't  help  being  happy.  It 
was  delightful  to  see  Julian  go  to  work  in  the  morning,  and 
round  about  six  o'clock  to  expect  him  to  come  home,  to  look 
at  the  clock  like  a  young  wife,  to  think  of  something  nice  to 
say,  a  bit  of  gossip,  or  something  out  of  the  evening  paper. 
Five  to  six,  he  wouldn't  be  long.  I  rang  for  two  Martinis. 

He  arrives  early,  a  smile  upon  his  lips.  A  kiss,  grateful 
and  pleasant,  a  conjugal  kiss.  He  doesn't  hesitate,  for  he's 
got  me  now,  and  all  my  boats  are  burned.  It  is  delicious 
that  he  should  not  hesitate,  that  he  should  be  so  secure  of 
me.  But  he  is  a  lover,  and  holds  me  to  him  for  a  long  time. 
I  rub  my  cheek  against  the  smooth  serge  of  his  shoulder. 
A  fault  scent  of  Egyptian  tobacco  reaches  me.  And  he  lays 
upon  my  cheek  his  that  is  now  a  little  harsh.  I  am  his;  I  am 
lost;  I  am  found.  I  would  not  stay  at  home  and  I  wanted  my 
freedom.  But  what's  the  good  of  a  woman's  freedom  except 
to  surrender  it  to  a  man? 

We  talk  of  the  events  of  his  day,  just  as  if  we  were  mar- 
ried and  he  were  coming  back  from  the  Stock  Exchange,1 
as  I  sit  upon  his  knees  and  he  plays  with  my  hah*. 

"I  had  a  stroke  of  luck  to-day,"  he  says.  "The  Ranee  of 
Chukapala  came  hi  to-day.  She's  decided  to  become  Euro- 
pean, and  I'm  to  make  her  six  afternoon  dresses  and  twelve 
evening  frocks.  I  wish  I  could  do  her  coats  and  skirts,  but 
I'm  no  good  at  it." 

"Oh  yes,  you  are,"  I  protest.  Of  course  he  can  do 
anything. 


EMOTIONS  189 

"No.  I  know  my  limitations.  I  had  to  hand  her  over  to 
Mr.  Kalisch  for  those,  and  Corine  will  fit  them." 

"Who's  Corine?" 

"Second  in  command  for  coats  and  skirts." 

"Is  she  pretty?" 

"Now  don't  be  silly."  He  pinches  my  ear.  He  is  charm- 
ing. "She's  as  ugly  as  virtue.  There,  will  that  do?  Or  shall 
I  bring  her  photograph?" 

"All  right,"  I  say,  grudgingly,  shaking  him  by  the  shoulder. 
"I  suppose  I  must  trust  you.  I  can't  do  anything  else.  But 
the  Ranee?  What's  she  like?" 

"Well,  she's  rather  pretty.  Oh,  don't  pinch  me  like  that! 
My  dear  girl,  she's  a  nigger." 

"So  am  I,  practically.    You  say  you  like  them  dark." 

"Yes,  darkest  England,  but  not  lightest  India.  Now  do 
keep  quiet  or  I  shall  lose  my  inspiration." 

I  grow  respectful  while  he  sketches  the  frocks.  It  is  a 
difficult  job.  The  Ranee  is  quite  young,  has  regular  features, 
and  is  merely  coffee-colored.  He  has  a  scheme  of  deep 
cream  and  gold  for  one  of  the  evening  frocks.  He  is  trying 
to  get  away  from  obvious  orange,  and  is  considering  apricot 
chiffon  and  fur  trimming. 

"It's  a  terrible  job,"  he  says.  "If  it  was  only  one  or  two 
of  each !  But  eighteen  at  a  time !  I'll  either  repeat  myself  or 
I'll  do  something  frightful  for  the  sake  of  variety." 

"You  won't,"  I  murmur,  soothingly.  I  am  sure  that  he 
cannot  err. 

m 

Julian  sleeps.  It  is  early  in  the  morning;  the  light  which 
I  have  shrouded  with  pink  chiffon  hangs  over  his  head. 
Julian  sleeps.  The  soft  light  brings  out  shadows  upon  the 
profile  crushed  into  the  pillow,  hollow  darknesses  in  the 
glowing  mound  of  his  hair,  where  flows  a  wave  from  the 
waters  of  Lethe.  He  lies  upon  his  side,  and  the  golden  eye- 
lashes shade  the  cheek  that  is  rosy  and  humid  with  sleep. 
The  bright  eyebrows  glow.  Pressed  upon  the  pillow  the 
cheek  is  shaped  forward,  like  the  fallen  petal  of  an  enormous 


190  URSULA   TRENT 

rose.  Here  and  there  gleam  the  little  hairs  grown  in  the 
night.  They  gleam  upon  the  narrow,  flat  cheeks,  the  chin 
that  is  angelic  and  virile.  As  he  sleeps  a  smile  falls  like  dew 
upon  the  short  upper  lip;  it  parts  from  the  lower  lip  that 
pouts,  lip  tender,  lip  avid,  lip  petulant  and  prayerful,  so 
hungry  and  so  sweet,  lip  that  releases  a  white  gleam  of 
teeth.  Julian  sleeps,  abstract  and  removed  under  the  rosy 
light,  and  his  sleep  is  dreamless  and  innocent.  He  is  weak 
and  exquisite,  purposeful  in  his  desires,  aloof  hi  his 
absence  from  me.  When  he  sleeps,  to  him  I  am  not. 
Sleep!  Wayward  demigod,  strayed  into  mortal  shape. 
I  will  bend  down  and  lay  upon  your  brow  a  kiss  so 
gentle  that  it  shall  not  steal  your  spirit  away  from  the  far 
realm  where  now  you  have  your  being.  Indeed,  in  your 
sleep,  when  you  feel  my  lips  upon  that  smooth  brow,  you 
shall  be  haunted  by  other  dreams,  and  there  shall  come  to 
you  through  my  lips  that  have  no  skill,  the  phantom  of  an 
impossible  Venus  who  shall  clasp  you,  my  Julian,  and  deserve 
your  sweetness. 

IV 

So  I  was  dependent  again,  and  I  didn't  mind.  I  had  in 
me  no  suffragette  ferocity,  no  desire  to  be  free  except  within 
the  limits  of  my  affections.  Now  that  I  loved,  loved  for  the 
first  time,  I  didn't  mind.  One's  not  dignified  when  one's  in 
love.  I  had  very  little  money  left;  only  about  four  pounds 
remained  of  Uncle  Victor's  twenty,  and  I  didn't  know  what 
to  do,  for  the  clothes  that  had  been  suitable  for  a  lonely 
manicurist  would  hardly  do  in  my  new  world.  It  was  all  very 
well  to  "break  into  freedom,"  as  the  modern  novels  put  it;  it 
was  all  very  well  "facing  hand  in  hand  a  cruel  world,"  as  the 
older  novels  put  it.  In  fact,  I  wasn't  breaking  into  freedom 
at  all,  and  the  cruel  world  was  represented  by  the  portion  of 
London  that  lies  between  Devonshire  House,  Aldwych,  New 
Oxford  Street,  and  Charing  Cross.  It  isn't  disposed  to  be 
cruel  so  long  as  you  have  a  pound  in  your  purse  and  no  back 
to  your  frock.  It  took  me  some  time  to  find  that  out;  then 
I  understood  that  it  would  welcome  me  and  my  four  pounds, 


EMOTIONS  191 

provided  I  spent  them  in  an  evening,  say  at  the  rate  of  five 
thousand  a  year. 

So  I  desperately  wanted  an  evening  frock — several,  indeed. 
Oh,  men  don't  understand  what  it  is  to  want  a  frock.  They 
go  on  wearing  their  dirty  old  clothes  (yes,  they  are  dirty, 
for  men  seldom  have  them  cleaned,  and  they  choose  them  of 
a  color  that  doesn't  show  the  dirt).  They've  set  up  the  tradi- 
tion that  a  dandy  is  only  half  a  man;  they  can  go,  content 
and  popular,  in  baggy  knees  and  frayed  collars.  We  love 
them  none  the  less,  and  I  wonder  whether  this  attitude  of 
ours  does  not  arise  from  a  consciousness  that  if  we  let  men 
be  dandies  in  silken  jerkins  and  ruffled  shirts  there'd  be  less 
money  to  dress  us.  Or  perhaps  it  is  just  that  most  of  us,  we've 
nothing  else  to  do. 

I  thought  of  that  at  the  time,  and  then  told  myself: 
"Damn  philosophy!  I  want  a  frock.  I  want  lots."  I  didn't 
like  to  ask  Julian  for  money.  He  wasn't  quite  my  property 
enough;  also,  the  idea  that  he  would  give  me  money  imported 
something  venal  into  our  relationship.  I  suppose  I  shouldn't 
have  felt  that  if  I'd  been  his  wife,  for  then  he'd  have  bar- 
gamed  before  a  registrar  and  not  in  the  court  of  Cupid. 
Fortunately  Julian  had  tact.  I  hardly  like  to  say,  even  now, 
that  he  had  very  little  more,  that  his  charm,  his  disinclina- 
tion to  be  disagreeable  or  to  give  pain,  arose  solely  from 
cowardice  before  scenes.  But  I  am  not  sorry  to  have  known 
him,  I  do  not  regret  anything  I  have  done,  for  it  has  made 
me  what  I  am.  (Evidently  I  am  still  pleased  with  myself.) 
On  the  second  day  he  said  something  about  opening  a  bank- 
ing account  for  me;  this  never  came  to  anything,  for  in  the 
end  he  gave  me  ten  pounds  a  month  to  throw  about,  and 
paid  my  dress  bills.  He  got  me  some  clothes  and  did  it 
gracefully.  He  didn't  say  that  I  was  a  poor  little  beggar 
girl  that  Cophetua  had  picked  out  of  the  Denman  Street 
gutter.  He  said:  "I  say,  Ursula,  what  luck  we  ran  away 
in  October.  Just  when  you  were  going  to  get  your  winter 
rig-out!  So  I  can  help  you." 

He  didn't  take  me  to  the  Maison  Dromina;  nothing  was 
said  about  it,  but  we  both  realized  that  this  would  be  a  bit 


192  URSULA   TRENT 

thick.  Except  for  my  coat  and  skirt,  which  were  lovely,  a 
sort  of  autumn-leaf  color  edged  with  Kolinsky,  he  practically 
made  my  clothes  himself.  Julian  really  was  an  artist;  at 
least,  he  took  as  much  trouble  as  any  painter  painting  a  por- 
trait. First  he  draped;  then  he  took  out  the  pins;  he  draped 
again;  readjusted.  It  looked  all  right.  Then  he  unpinned 
again.  And  again.  I  became  crazy  with  irritation,  and  just 
when  he  was  satisfied  he  disliked  the  effect  and  tried  an 
entirely  new  scheme.  He  brought  length  after  length  of 
stuff  from  the  Maison  Dromina  in  a  suit  case,  which  he  took 
back  the  next  morning.  He  tried  experiments  in  skin  con- 
trasts with  varieties  of  fur,  with  gold,  with  silver,  with  scar- 
let, with  blacks  of  different  textures. 

"Oh!"  he  gasped.  "It's  so  nice  to  be  able  to  take  time. 
The  clients  jiggle  about  so."  I  wras  his  lay  figure,  but  it  was 
worth  while  suffering.  With  the  assistance  of  a  girl  from  the 
Maison  Dromina,  whom  he  employed  occasionally  in  this 
way,  for  poor  but  inspiring  clients,  he  made  me  three  after- 
noon frocks  and  three  evening  frocks.  I  won't  describe  them 
all,  not  that  I  don't  remember  them,  but  it  would  take  too 
much  space.  But  I  must  describe  one  of  the  evening  frocks, 
just  to  see  it  again  in  my  mind.  It  was  made  of  lemon- 
yellow  brocade  shot  with  orange,  very  soft  and  clinging; 
attached  was  a  narrow,  dragging  train,  draped  up  on  the  left 
hip.  It  was  not  very  low  in  front,  but  it  had  practically  no 
back.  Strings  of  jet  beads  served  as  shoulder  straps  and 
carried  a  trimming  that  intoxicated  me;  two  epaulets  of 
orange  paradise,  framing  but  not  hiding  the  shoulder,  and 
edged  with  black  paradise,  merciful  to  the  skin.  I  had  very 
little  on,  and  remarked  on  it  to  Julian. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it  may  be  a  little  marked,  but  you're  the 
one  woman  in  a  hundred  who  could  wear  it.  Ah !  it's  lovely 
to  dress  you  instead  of  making  a  frock  for  Lady  Profiteer 
and  watching  her  expand  in  it.  It's  just  hell.  But  you 
mustn't  wear  it  too  often.  Your  flame-colored  frock  will 
see  you  through;  it's  a  very  popular  color,  and  so  the  frock 
won't  get  noticed.  And  there's  your  little  black  dance 
frock.  You've  got  to  have  a  black  dance  frock  until  the 


EMOTIONS  193 

time  comes  when  the  men  wash  their  hands  before  each 
dance." 

I  laughed.  In  those  days,  everything  he  said  was  amusing. 
I  thought  him  so  wonderful  that  I  needed  nobody  else.  I 
was  content  to  loaf  about  and  to  watch  for  him  to  come 
home.  I  had  no  friends  and  needed  none.  Except  that  I 
should  have  liked  to  collect  Polly,  Miss  Merton,  and  Vera 
Westley,  and  Hilda,  and  Aunt  Augusta — no,  not  Aunt 
Augusta — to  show  him  to  everybody,  to  give  them  a  treat. 
I  was  entirely  abased;  I  had  reacted  from  my  impulse  to 
independence.  For  a  moment,  like  a  man,  I  had  refused  to 
take  an  allowance  from  my  people,  because,  like  a  man,  I 
wanted  to  preserve  my  dignity.  Now  I  was  a  woman  again; 
I  was  material,  and  loved  a  thing  or  a  man  more  than  an 
idea;  my  old  feminine  habits,  acquired  as  a  daughter,  of 
being  kept  by  somebody,  of  being  tipped,  asserted  them- 
selves. Maybe  women  will  not  always  be  like  that,  and 
that  they  will  take  their  share  of  blows  as  well  as  kisses  in 
the  work  of  the  world,  but  I  am  not  the  woman  of  the  future. 
Grapes  when  I'm  ill,  hats  when  I  feel  better,  mille  fleurs 
when  I  go  out,  and  kisses  at  all  times.  I'm  afraid  that  repre- 
sents more  than  the  surface  of  my  temperament. 

I  think  I  made  Julian  happy  then;  I  was  infinitely  attrac- 
tive to  him.  That  was  a  source  of  pride  to  me,  for  it  seemed 
difficult  to  charm  a  creature  so  virile,  that  looked  so  feminine. 
He  was  fastidious,  willful,  and  it  pleased  me  to  bend  to  his 
fancy.  How  I  came  to  hate  Julian !  Did  I?  Can  I?  Does 
one  hate  the  child  that  with  a  sportive  ball  breaks  your 
matchless  Lowestoft  bowl?  No,  I  can't  hate  him  even  now, 
though  I  need  other  things  besides  grapes,  hats,  mille  fleurs, 
and  kisses;  in  regard  to  Julian,  I  still  feel  immense  gratitude, 
for  he  made  me  love  him,  and  I'd  never  loved  before.  I 
must  be  a  little  faithful,  even  to  the  faithless. 


Chapter  II 
A  Party 


IT  was  three  weeks  after  my  establishment  at  Dover 
Street.  During  that  time  I  had  spoken  to  nobody  except 
Julian  and  Beatrice,  with  whom  I  was  on  good  terms,  though 
I  found  it  difficult  to  refuse  her  confidences.  Beatrice  knew 
such  a  lot. 

"They're  a  funny  crowd  hi  this  block,  Mrs.  Quin.  For 
instance,  on  the  first  floor  there's  Mr.  Sutton.  I  mean  to 
say,  he  don't  live  there,  Mrs.  Quin,  but  he  sort  of  turns  up 
now  and  again  to  see  Miss  Billy  Rainham  and  her  ma." 
Confidentially:  "If  you  ask  me,  Mrs.  Quin,  if  I  was  a  man 
I'd  rather  fancy  the  ma.  Mind  you,  I  dunno.  Perhaps  it  is 
the  ma  he's  after.  Or  both.  You  never  know,  do  you?" 

"No,"  I  said,  laughing. 

"And  at  number  six,  Mrs.  Quin,  it's  quiet  enough,  but  Mrs. 
Thursby,  she's  that  squiffy  most  of  the  time  that  she  rings 
for  her  breakfast  at  four  in  the  afternoon.  Course,  she 
starts  reviving  after  that.  She  don't  give  much  trouble. 
Jim  and  I  get  her  up  all  right  in  the  service  lift.  Wouldn't 
do  to  bring  her  up  in  the  passenger  lift,  Mrs.  Quin.  It  'd 
give  the  house  a  bad  name." 

"That  would  be  a  pity,"  I  said. 

"Rather.  They  say,  what's  La  a  name?  But  I  say  every- 
thing's in  a  name.  On  the  whole,  you  know,  they  aren't  bad. 
Mr.  Colwell,  for  instance,  he  shares  number  five  with  Mr. 
Sowerby.  They  never  make  trouble.  Except  that  Mr. 
Sowerby  does  sing  a  little  too  late  at  night  as  he  plays  the 
mandolin  in  his  blue-silk  pajamas.  You'd  like  Mr.  Colwell, 
Mrs.  Quin.  He's  a  handsome  man,  just  like  a  policeman. 


A  PARTY  195 

But  I  like  Mr.  Sowerby  better.  Such  a  pretty  fair-haired 
boy  with  manners  like  a  little  lady.  Course,  he  'ain't  got 
the  figure  of  Mr.  Quin." 

In  spite  of  my  attempts  to  stop  her,  Beatrice  would  discuss 
Julian  also,  with  an  air  of  tender  longing.  But  she  was  a 
nice  girl,  and,  when  the  hot -water  system  went  wrong, 
brought  me  up  hot-water  bottles  unasked.  I  might  have  so 
gone  on  forever,  though  I  suppose  at  the  end  I  should  have 
got  tired  of  the  Dover  Street  Eden.  But  Julian  did  not 
intend  to  hide  me.  Not  only  had  he  provided  the  frocks, 
but  at  the  same  time  there  arrived  a  large  number  of  boxes. 
Knowing  my  sizes,  he  had  brought  me  shoes  and  gloves  and 
stockings.  I  let  him  do  everything  except  hats.  He  knew 
much  more  about  it  than  I  did.  When  I  was  ready  he  said, 
"Now  we're  going  to  a  dance."  Another  Julian  revealed 
itself.  It  appeared,  though  he  did  not  say  so,  that  I  had 
made  a  breach,  three  weeks  broad,  in  some  ancient  habits, 
that  the  normal  Julian  never  stayed  at  home  hi  the  evening. 

"What  did  you  do?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Went  out  to  dine  with  the  devil 
knows  who,  and  then  to  dance  with  Heaven  knows  what." 

"So  you  miss  it?"  I  said,  suddenly  disappointed.  It  was 
the  traditional  awakening  of  the  young  bride.  I  was  in  that 
moment  just  like  a  little  suburban  wife,  who  discovers  after 
the  honeymoon  that  her  husband  is  still  a  Freemason. 

"Of  course  I  don't,  you  cuckoo.  Only  do  you  think  I'm 
going  to  hide  you  away  here?" 

"Aren't  you  happy?"  f 

He  took  me  in  his  arms  and,  having  kissed  me,  fixed  upon 
me  those  laughing  eyes.  "Happy?"  he  said.  "No."  He 
smiled  at  my  surprise.  "How  can  I  be  happy  when  my 
pride  isn't  satisfied?  When  I've  won  the  sweetest,  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  the  world  and  can't  show  her  to  every- 
body? When  I  can't  go  round  introducing  her,  and  saying: 
'Look!  this  is  what  I've  got.  This  wonderful,  this  lovely 
thing.'  Ursula,  I'd  like  to  march  you  up  and  down  Piccadilly 
behind  a  band,  so  that  everybody  in  the  world  might  see  you 
and  envy  me." 


196  URSULA  TRENT 

I  sighed.  He  was  charming.  I  suppose  that's  what  he 
wanted,  but  no  doubt  I  was  rather  trying;  I  want  too  much, 
I'm  exacting.  Already,  now  and  then,  he  fell  into  casual 
moods;  he  went  to  sleep  at  once  after  we'd  said  good  night. 
I  coulcln't  be  to  him  a  continual  torment,  and  that  is  perhaps 
why,  now  and  then,  I  made  myself  into  a  torment.  I  wanted 
him  to  be  happy  through  me,  and  yet  never  to  be  content. 
I  had  to  disturb  him  always.  My  fault,  I  suppose.  I'm  like 
other  women,  an  octopus. 


It  was  hah*  past  ten;  we  were  at  Compton's.  A  large  cellar 
in  Coventry  Street.  A  very  long  room,  with  green-painted 
walls,  roofed  by  a  purple  vault  spangled  with  golden  stars. 
A  scarlet  dado  caught  up  the  paint  of  the  woodwork.  Hang- 
ing from  the  roof,  many  chandeliers  shed  brutal,  unshaded 
light.  For  a  moment  I  paused,  blinking  a  little,  like  a  moth 
entrapped.  There  was  such  a  crowd,  not  only  upon  the  pol- 
ished oak  floor,  dancing,  making  eddies  of  light  and  darkness, 
splashed  here  and  there  with  bright  color,  but  everywhere 
black  and  white  clumps  of  men  about  a  pillar  or  a  door, 
couples  and  groups  at  little  tables,  round  bottles  and  meats, 
heads  close  together,  each  group  surmounted  by  an  eddying 
cloud  of  pale-blue  smoke. 

"Come  along,"  said  Julian,  taking  me  by  the  arm,  and  I 
let  myself  be  gently  pushed  forward,  past  a  misty  commis- 
sionaire, dressed  in  electric-blue  and  gold,  and  looking  seven 
or  eight  feet  high.  For  a  moment  I  stood  moving  my  toes 
inside  my  shoes.  I  was  frightened.  I'd  never  been  to  a 
dancing  club  before,  and  I  wasn't  ready  for  what  I  could  see 
and  hear  at  the  end  of  the  room:  four  stout  and  glistening 
negroes,  of  whom  two  twanged  banjos,  while  a  third  dis- 
located himself  over  a  drum,  and  a  fourth  leaped  from  side 
to  side,  striking  with  a  dozen  arms  unexpected  things,  kettles, 
dinner  bells,  and  frying  pans. 

"Come  along,  darling,"  said  Julian,  drawing  me  toward 
the  floor.  As  I  stepped  on,  all  the  negroes  together  emitted 
a  frightful  yell;  I  took  it  as  my  welcome.  But  as  I  began  to 


A  PARTY  197 

•Jance,  as  we  went  round  the  room,  as  couples  passed  us  very 
close,  as  I  more  coolly  perceived  my  companions,  an  excite- 
ment rose  in  me.  I  was  liking  it.  The  people  interested  me, 
the  highly  groomed  youths,  the  rather  brutish  fat  men  who 
showed  a  crumpled  edge  of  linen  round  their  bulging  shirt 
fronts,  and  especially  the  women,  little,  fair,  bobbed,  stripped 
women,  excessive  women  with  erected  hair,  and  wet  eyes  in 
a  white  mask. 

"...  And  it's  all  through  you,  Mr.  Pussyfoot! 
Puss,  Puss,  Puss,  Puss,  Mr.  Pussyfoot! 
By  and  by  we'll  all  be  dry. 
No  more  going  out  upon  the  tiddli-hi!  .  .  ." 

yelled  the  negroes.    I  laughed. 

"Do  you  like  that  music?"  said  Julian,  smiling,  his  lips 
close  to  mine. 

"How  do  you  know  I  haven't  heard  it  before?" 

"Because  you're  a  little  white  goose,"  he  shouted. 

"Goose  yourself!"  I  screamed  against  the  band. 

As  if  giving  me  the  measure  of  the  place,  he  touched  my 
cheek  with  his  lips,  while  a  girl  who  was  passing  us  turned 
away  from  her  man  to  say:  "Don't  bite  her!  You'll  spoil 
your  appetite." 

I  laughed;  I  didn't  mind.  Yet  what  a  thing  to  happen  in 
a  public  ballroom  to  Ursula  Trent,  of  Giber  Court,  Burleigh 
Abbas!  I  suppose  all  these  women  round  me  came  from 
some  sort  of  Giber  Court,  if  a  little  less  expensive,  and  were 
bashful  once  upon  a  time.  After  all,  every  girl  has  been  six 
years  old. 

I  discovered  with  some  satisfaction  that  Julian  did  not 
dance  very  well.  To  begin  with,  he  knew  very  few  steps, 
one  of  which,  a  variation  of  the  jazz  roll,  was  pretty  fair, 
except  that  he  hopped,  but  whenever  he  saw  a  vacant  space 
he  precipitated  himself  into  a  swirling  two-step  that  made  me 
giddy.  I  didn't  tell  him  just  then,  but,  later  in  the  evening, 
when  I  had  made  friends,  when  I  had  drunk  a  large  glass  of 
ginger  ale  which  tasted  much  stronger  than  the  ginger  ale 


198  URSULA   TRENT 

of  my  past,  I  said:  "Julian,  I'm  going  to  take  you  in  hand. 
Glide — there,  that's  it.  Keep  your  feet  on  the  ground, 
there's  a  darling."  As  he  attempted  to  break  into  that 
awful  scenic  railway  two-step,  I  kept  him  down  and  made 
him  walk  me  quietly.  He  took  it  very  well;  indeed,  at  many 
other  dances  I  became  his  leader.  I  was  proud  to  make  him 
do  what  I  liked. 

Evidently  Julian  knew  a  good  many  people  here,  for  a 
number  were  introduced  in  turn.  Ida  Quin,  his  sister,  whose 
name  I  knew  from  theater  programs,  and  who  accepted  the 
new  Mrs.  Quin  with  supreme  ease,  with  such  ease  that  for 
one  horrible  moment  I  wondered  whether  she  wras  used  to 
her  brother's  Mrs.  Quins.  A  short,  stocky  man  with  close- 
cropped  hair  was  introduced  to  me  as  Bill  Gordon,  the  Dur- 
ham middleweight,  who  was  in  the  running  for  the  English 
boxing  championship.  More  women.  Somebody  who  was 
merely  Sadie,  a  tall,  pretty  woman,  rather  worn  about  the 
chin.  Then  an  amazing  little  fellow,  a  stage  decorator  known 
as  Arf  a  Mo',  inevitably,  no  doubt,  because  his  name  was 
Arthur  Moy.  Arf  a  Mo'  danced  with  an  exquisiteness  I  shall 
not  meet  again;  it  was  like  moving  with  a  pillar  of  cloud; 
one  just  moved;  but  he  irritated  me  because  he  would  break 
into  this  ideal,  impersonal  movement  with  rapid,  yelping 
conversation.  He  was  a  little  pink,  thin  man,  incredibly 
active,  with  eyes  like  gray  beads  that  started  forward.  He 
knew  everybody. 

"We've  got  a  crowd  here  to-night,"  he  said.  "I  don't 
know  why.  Sometimes  this  place  is  as  empty  as  a  church. 
To-night  everybody's  here." 

"I  don't  know  many  people,"  I  murmured. 

"No?  ...  Why,  they're  all  celebrities,  peers,  or  gaolbirds." 
He  nodded  toward  a  delicious  red-haired  girl.  "There's 
Christine — Christine  Waldron,  the  cine  player.  She's  going 
to  give  the  knock  to  Mary  Pickford  before  she's  done." 

"Who  is  she  dancing  with?" 

"Oh,  anybody  but  Miltiades." 

"Miltiades?" 

"Of  course  you  don't  know.    He  runs  her.    He's  the  little 


A  PARTY  199 

Greek  chap  in  the  corner — I'll  show  you — moping  behind  a 
cigar,  while  Christine  dances  with  Tom  and  Dick,  and  yet 
doesn't  make  Harry  jealous.  That's  Lord  Alf  with  her. 
Lord  Alfred  Lydbrook.  He's  a  card,  Alf!  Good  chap.  If 
a  girl's  broke,  she  can  always  get  a  fiver  out  of  Alf,  and  for 
nothing." 

He  pointed  out  others,  a  Mr.  Pawlett,  who  was  just  Paw- 
lett,  and  Bob  Freeland,  of  whom  all  one  could  say  was  that 
there  was  no  vice  in  him.  I  got  awfully  muddled.  Every- 
body seemed  to  be  Billys  and  Tootoos.  I  was  shown  the 
real  Tootoo,  a  pretty,  fair  girl,  who,  Arf  a  Mo'  said,  at 
present  had  no  past.  Also  an  amazing  fat  person,  very 
Jewish,  with  a  pearl-and-gold  watch  chain  across  an  extensive 
white  waistcoat,  Mr.  Montmorency  Satterthwaite. 

"  Heavens !    What  a  name ! "  I  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Arf  a  Mo'.  "His  old  name  of  Moses  Samuel 
was  handier.  But  I  like  old  Moses — beg  pardon,  Mont- 
morency. He  runs  his  cinemas  for  the  elevation  of  public 
morals.  Goes  to  them  himself.  I've  seen  him  weep  over  his 
own  film,  'Poor  Little  Dollie.'" 

When  he  took  me  back  to  the  table  where  I  had  left  Julian, 
I  was  introduced  to  more  people,  to  Bob  Freeland,  very  neat 
and  trying  to  look  very  fast.  Ida  Quin,  I  thought,  did  look 
very  faat;  with  unashamed  powder  and  public  lip  salve  she 
proceeded  to  make  herself  neat.  Sadie  joined  us,  Bill  Gordon 
following,  with  them  a  big,  heavy,  dark  dancer  who  was 
introduced  simply  as  The  Woman.  They  stared  at  me. 
But  there  was  no  time  for  talking.  I  danced  with  Bill  Gordon, 
who  was  even  worse  than  Julian,  but  knew  it  and  painstak- 
ingly explained  to  me  that  a  boxer's  balance  and  a  dancer's 
balance  were  not  the  same  thing.  He  seemed  out  of  place 
here,  this  sturdy,  blunt-featured  fellow,  slow  of  speech  and 
broadly  north  country.  So  serious  did  he  seem  that,  em- 
boldening, I  said: 

"You  don't  seem  to  be  enjoying  yourself." 

"That  I  am,"  he  replied,  indignantly.  Then,  after  a  pause, 
"It's  a  tony  sort  of  place." 

I  realized  that  Bill  Gordon  had  social  ambitions.    To  be 


200  URSULA   TRENT 

a  boxer  was  all  very  well,  but  to  be  a  fashionable  boxer  was 
better,  for  then  one  might  be  noticed  by  Mr.  Starnberg  and 
have  a  big  match  fixed  for  one  at  the  Stadium. 

I  danced  with  Bob  Freeland,  a  beautifully  barbered  young 
stockbroker.  He  said  audacious  things  to  me  in  a  shy  way. 
He  was  rather  nice,  so  respectable  and  trying  so  hard  to  be 
depraved.  I  danced  with  Arf  a  Mo'  again,  with  newly 
introduced  people,  with  Walter  Slindon  and  Karl  Meerbrook. 
I  got  very  hot,  but,  being  dark,  I  didn't  show  much.  Just  as 
the  end  came  and  the  negroes  played  "God  Save  the  King," 
I  realized  that  I  was  enjoying  myself.  Julian  must  have 
known  it,  for,  suddenly  seizing  me  by  the  arm,  he  murmured 
to  two  or  three  collected  round:  "The  night  is  yet  young. 
Come  home  with  us  and  see  if  there's  any  whisky."  They 
agreed,  but  The  Woman  protested. 

"No,  it's  too  late.  You  all  come  back  with  me.  I  only 
live  round  the  corner."  After  some  dispute  The  Woman 
collected  Julian,  Ida  Quin,  Sadie,  Bill  Gordon,  and  me. 
Arf  a  Mo'  excused  himself,  saying  he  might  be  in  later.  I 
felt  very  dissipated,  walking  up  Coventry  Street  with  the 
little  crowd.  WTe  had  only  a  few  yards  to  go,  for  The 
Woman's  flat  was  in  Panama  Mansions,  on  the  other  side 
of  Leicester  Square.  The  October  air  fell  softly  from  a 
deep-blue  sky  studded  with  golden  nails.  The  Woman  had 
gone  ahead  on  the  arm  of  Bill  Gordon,  and  I  found  myself 
walking  with  Sadie,  who  confided  that  she  was  a  cine  player. 

"That  woman's  a  fool,"  remarked  Sadie,  nodding  toward 
her  hostess.  "I  know  her  little  game,  but  it  won't  come 
off." 

"What  little  game?" 

"Didn't  you  see  that  she  wouldn't  come  to  your  flat? 
She  wanted  to  get  us  all  into  hers.  She  wants  to  keep  u& 
there  so  late  that  Bill  Gordon  won't  think  it  worth  while  to 
go  home." 

"You  mean  that  she  and  Mr.  Gordon?  .  .  .*' 

"Well,  what  do  you  think?  But  she's  a  prize  idiot.  He's 
not  going  to  throw  himself  away  while  he's  in  training,  and 
she  hangs  round  his  neck  instead  of  dangling  before  his  nose. 


A  PARTY  201 

She'll  come  to  a  bad  end,  you'll  see.  She's  got  too  much 
heart." 

I  didn't  think  Sadie  had  too  much  heart.  The  cine  player 
looked  about  thirty-three,  was  very  tall,  rather  thin.  Her 
banded  golden  hair  lay  evenly  round  a  brow  rather  too  high, 
and  her  mouth  was  thin,  a  little  cruel.  I  did  not  like  her 
much,  but  she  insisted  on  confiding  in  me  within  a  few  min- 
utes of  our  first  acquaintance.  She  was  fed  up  with  Pawlett. 

He  had  little  kick  and  little  cash.  "Kick  or  cash,  that's 
my  program  for  a  man."  Sadie  was  one  of  the  few  who  were 
confidential.  I  soon  found  out  that,  in  these  circles,  every- 
body maintained  an  air  of  respectability,  while  leaving  no 
moral  covering  to  anybody  else.  She  made  me  a  little 
nervous. 

m 

The  Woman's  flat  was  on  the  fifth  floor  of  a  tall  block." 
The  stairs  were  dark  and  not  very  clean.  Behind  a  door, 
as  we  passed,  I  heard  male  laughter  and  feminine  giggles. 
The  Woman's  flat  surprised  me.  I  had  expected,  I  don't 
know  why — the  locality,  perhaps — something  like  Vera  West- 
ley's  flat.  Instead  I  found  it  was  Vera's  dream,  the  dream 
of  a  successful  Vera — a  flat  in  the  Oriental  style.  The 
Woman  let  our  chattering  party  into  a  small  hall  painted 
sky  blue  and  decorated  with  a  frieze  of  golden  crescents  and 
stars.  Across  the  white-painted  floor  lay  a  Persian  rug. 
As  we  went  in,  a  door  in  the  passage  opened  and  The 
Woman's  maid  appeared.  She  was  a  negress,  clad  in  a  curi- 
ous smock  of  scarlet  and  gold,  tied  in  at  the  waist. 

"Get  something  to  drink,  Suli,"  said  The  Woman,  and 
led  us  into  the  drawing-room.  Though  the  hall  had  prepared 
me,  I  was  not  ready  for  this  dim  apartment  with  the  deep- 
blue  walls  separated  by  black  panels,  for  the  primrose  ceiling, 
and  especially  for  the  fact  that  there  were  no  chairs.  All 
round  the  room  were  arranged  divans,  one  a  hard  box  mat- 
tress, the  other  two  swollen  and  loaded  with  cushions 
that  tumbled  in  piles  toward  the  wild  red-and-green  carpet. 
Under  the  light  that  fell  from  a  lantern  of  multi-colored 


202  URSULA   TRENT 

glass,  the  cushions  stared,  orange,  Turkish  green,  fawn 
spotted  with  blue,  purple,  cardinal,  gold  tissue;  here  and 
there  a  dead-black  cushion  gave  relief. 

Rather  shyly  I  seated  myself,  Julian  following,  on  the  box 
couch.  This  was  rather,  I  suppose,  a  test  of  temperament. 
The  unawakened  would  avoid  the  divans.  But  nobody 
seemed  impressed  by  this  prismatic  apartment.  While  The 
Woman  fussed  in  the  hall,  chasing  the  negress  and  hurrying 
the  drinks,  our  party  disposed  itself  where  it  could — namely, 
Julian  with  me,  and  on  the  opposite  divan  Bill  Gordon,  with 
impartial  arms  round  the  waists  of  Sadie  and  Ida  Quin. 
WTien  The  Woman  came  in  I  was  amused  to  see  her  fling 
at  Sadie  a  look  of  hate,  upon  which  the  cine  player  turned  to 
the  boxer  and  said  in  a  falsetto  voice:  "Don't  tickle  me,  Bill, 
before  everybody." 

"Here,  Sadie,"  said  The  Woman,  "have  a  whisky?"  And, 
unable  to  contain  herself:  "Don't  maul  her  about,  Bill. 
Try  to  remember  this  isn't  the  public  house  you're  used  to." 

I  was  frightened;  I  was  expecting  a  quarrel.  But  nothing 
happened.  Sadie  got  up  languidly,  faced  The  Woman,  and 
said: 

"Don't  play  the  goat,  you  silly  kid."  Everybody  laughed, 
and  I  realized  how  light  were  these  people's  emotions,  for 
The  Woman  laid  a  handsome,  thick  brown  arm  round 
Sadie's  waist. 

There  was  plenty  to  drink  in  that  flat,  for  Suli  had  brought 
in,  together  with  whisky,  various  liqueurs,  and  even  some 
bottles  of  beer.  Julian,  who  was  watching  me  with  an  air 
of  vague  amusement,  made  me  drink  whisky.  As  I  let  him 
mix  it  for  me  I  soon  felt  less  foreign  in  this  atmosphere. 
There  was  no  reason  to  feel  foreign.  Everything  was  easy 
enough,  and  a  little  later  Arf  a  Mo',  followed  by  a  tall, 
stoutish,  square-headed  man  with  a  Kaiser  mustache,  called 
Starnberg,  came  in  to  add  deep  voices  to  our  shrill  ones. 
I  had  some  more  whisky.  Everybody  was  smoking.  Then 
The  Woman  had  a  sort  of  quarrel  with  Bill  Gordon  because 
he  refused  to  drink  anything  but  soda  water. 

*' You're  training  again,  I  suppose,"  she  snarled. 


A  PARTY  203- 

"Yes,"  he  said,  stockily.  "I'm  fighting  Tuesday  week. 
Can't  take  risks." 

"What's  the  good  of  your  coming  here?"  she  growlecf, 
her  fine  eyes  glowing.  "I  wonder  they  let  you  dance." 

"  Good  exercise,"  said  Bill  Gordon.    "  It  makes  you  sweat." 

"Ah,  don't  be  disgusting!"  said  Sadie. 

"Don't  overdo  it,  BUI,"  said  Arf  a  Mo',  "or  you'll  be 
turning  into  a  jockey." 

Bill  Gordon  was  vigorously  chipped,  and  Mr.  Starnberg's 
guttural  voice  was  heard  declaring  that  he  ought  to  be 
undressed  on  the  spot  to  see  if  he  was  putting  on  flesh. 

We  were  resorting  ourselves  a  little  now.  Ida  and  Arf  a 
Mo'  on  one  divan,  hand  in  hand,  and  seeming  to  think  of 
something  else;  The  Woman,  very  close  to  Bill  Gordon,  who 
methodically  sipped  his  soda  water,  with  Sadie  on  a  cushion 
at  their  feet,  blowing  smoke  rings  into  their  faces.  Starnberg, 
who,  on  entering,  had  laid  upon  me  a  glance  that  corre- 
sponded with  his  coarse  features,  had  joined  Julian  and  me 
on  the  box  mattress.  He  was  talking  to  me  in  a  ponderous, 
fatherly  way,  asking  me  what  I  did,  whether  I  liked  dancing, 
and  would  I  care  for  a  ticket  to  see  a  fight  he  was  organizing 
next  week?  I  found  out  that  he  was  an  American,  presum- 
ably of  German  origin.  He  had  many  interests.  He  was  evi- 
dently an  organizer,  not  only  of  boxing,  but  of  light  opera, 
and  seemed  to  own  an  interest  in  a  dancing  club  or  two,  for 
he  offered  us  a  free  pass.  I  answered  him  shyly,  and  he 
seemed  to  like  me,  this  big,  brutal -looking,  not  unkindly 
man.  But,  after  a  time,  though  I  was  a  little  fuddled,  my 
mind  drifted  away  from  him  toward  the  general  conversa- 
tion. I'd  never  heard  that  sort  of  conversation.  Just  now 
Satterthwaite  was  being  discussed. 

"  I  can  remember  Moses — beg  pardon,  Montmorency,"  said 
Arf  a  Mo',  "when  he  kept  a  peep  show  in  Tottenham  Court 
Road.  It  hadn't  got  a  name;  painted  outside  was  merely, 
'Pay  a  penny  and  have  a  look.'  It  cost  a  penny  extra  to  go 
into  the  inner  room  'for  adults  only.'  I  went  in  when  I  was 
thirteen  and  was  greatly  disappointed." 

"You  always  were  precocious,  Arf  a  Mo'?"  said  Sadie. 


204  URSULA  TRENT 

"Born  Uast." 

"Why  don't  you  get  hold  of  Christine?  She  specializes 
in  the  blase;  that's  why  Miltiades  can  never  think  of  any- 
thing better  to  do  than  to  sit  behind  a  cigar,"  said  Julian. 

"Oh,  let  Christine  alone!"  snapped  Sadie.  The  company 
exchanged  glances.  One  knew  that  she  was  sick  of  Pawlett, 
but  that  didn't  make  his  leaning  to  Christine  any  more  ac- 
ceptable. So  Arf  a  Mo,'  who  had  tact,  returned  to  Tootoo, 
wno  was  acting  hi  a  revue  called  "Skirt."  How  they  hated 
her! 

"I  don't  see  what  men  see  in  that  washed-out  little  sheep," 
remarked  Sadie. 

"Don't  you?  "  said  Arf  a  Mo*.  "She's  no  more  washed-out 
than  any  other  fair  woman." 

"Don't  be  rude.  I've  got  color  in  my  hair.  And,  anyway, 
there's  life  in  it." 

"It  would  snare  a  saint,"  said  Arf  a  Mo*. 

"You  should  pay  your  golden  tresses  into  the  Bank," 
added  Julian. 

Sadie  laughed.  "You're  all  pulling  my  leg.  But  it's  true. 
Not  that  there's  any  harm  hi  Tootoo,  except  that  I  can't 
stand  her  high  and  mighty  ways." 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Julian,  "that  what  it  really  comes  to  is 
that  Tootoo  is  straight." 

"Calculating,  you  mean,"  said  Sadie. 

"Same  thing.  And  I  don't  see  why  all  you  women  are  so 
mad  with  her.  Supposing  she  does  like  going  home  to 
mamma  after  the  theater.  Well,  why  not?  That's  how  you 
become  a  peeress." 

I  laughed.  How  much  wittier  he  was  than  the  others,  and 
he  stroked  my  arm  as  he  talked. 

The  conversation  passed  to  Meerbrook's  new  music  for  a 
light  opera  which  Starnberg  described  as  the  leg  chorus. 
Nasty  suggestions  were  made  about  Meerbrook,  though 
everybody  seemed  to  like  him.  Then  I  found  that  Sadie 
was  describing  to  me  a  process  invented  by  Madame  de 
Louviers  for  the  curing  of  chinny  chins. 

"My  dear,"  she  whispered,   "it's  perfectly  wonderful. 


A  PARTY  205 

No  straps,  no  masks;  just  a  little  petting  and  patting,  and 
a  cream  that  smells  like  heaven."  She  fingered  the  slight 
puckers  over  her  jaw.  "It  does  prey  on  one  so." 

I  was  feeling  more  at  home.  Starnberg  was  still  talking 
to  me  in  his  heavy  way,  while  Julian  from  time  to  tune  flung 
me  a  soft  glance  that  expressed  admiration.  It  was  very 
reassuring.  Suddenly  Sadie  leaned  forward  and  said,  in  a 
low  voice:  "I  say,  it  isn't  late.  Let's  have  a  whiff." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  and  everybody  looked  a 
little  shy.  "Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  The  Woman. 

"Come  on,"  said  Sadie. 

"Good  idea,"  said  Arf  a  Mo'. 

Bill  Gordon  protested,  begging  us  not  to  be  damned  fools. 
This  seemed  to  inflame  The  Woman.  "Shut  up!"  she  said, 
brutally.  "This  is  my  flat,  isn't  it?  Get  out  if  you  don't 
like  it."  She  struck  a  gong.  A  whispered  word  to  Suli, 
and  in  a  moment  the  negress  returned  with  a  tray  on  which 
stood  a  lamp,  a  dozen  little  pipes,  and  a  gray  substance 
in  a  bowl.  Bill  Gordon  protested  again.  To  my  surprise, 
Julian  interfered. 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Bill.    It  isn't  dope." 

"Can't  get  it  nowadays,"  growled  Sadie.  "Still,  opium's 
better  than  nothing." 

A  thrill  ran  through  me.  I  was  going  to  smoke  opium! 
Julian  murmured:  "Don't  smoke  it,  Little  Bear,  if  you 
don't  want  to." 

Sadie  overheard  him  and  cried  out:  "Little  Bear!  He 
calls  her  his  Little  Bear." 

"Well,  Ursula  means  'little  bear,'"  said  Julian,  blushing. 
Everybody  laughed,  and  Arf  a  Mo'  asked  whether  he  might 
snuggle  up  against  the  warm  fur  of  the  little  bear.  Hence- 
forth I  was  called  Little  Bear,  and  it  took  me  some  time  to 
get  used  to  the  poor  jokes  that  were  made  over  the  spelling 
of  the  word  "bear." 

The  eight  of  us  disposed  ourselves  to  smoke.  Bill  Gordon, 
having  refused  to  take  part,  was  given  the  job  of  making  the 
pills. 

The  pipes  were  loaded,  the  light  was  dimmed. 


206  URSULA   TRENT 

"Don't  pull  too  fast,"  said  Julian.  "  Very  slowly.  Breathe 
in  through  the  mouth  and  breathe  out  through  your  nose. 
There,  not  so  fast.  That's  right." 

"Shut  up!"  said  The  Woman,  in  a  hushed  voice,  and  by 
degrees  the  movements  on  the  divans  ceased.  There  was  no 
rustling  of  skirts.  Only  regular  breathing  could  be  heard 
as  they  composed  themselves  into  quietude.  Julian  had 
laid  his  cheek  upon  my  shoulder,  and  I  could  only  just  see 
him,  his  eyes  half  open  under  veined  eyelids.  He  frightened 
me.  Could  he  be  asleep  already?  For  I  felt  nothing  at  all. 
So  I  jogged  him  with  my  elbow.  He  smiled  and  whispered: 

"What's  the  matter,  Little  Bear?  Do  you  want  to 
stop?" 

"No.  I'm  frightened,  but  I  want  to  go  on  just  to  see  what 
it's  like." 

"Oh,  do  shut  up!"  said  The  Woman  again,  wearily. 

It  took  three  pipes  to  affect  me  at  all,  and  even  so  I  was 
wakeful,  highly  conscious  of  what  was  going  on.  Arf  a  Mo' 
lay  in  the  arms  of  Ida  Quin,  cheek  to  cheek  and  pipes  touch- 
ing. One  could  see  hardly  any  smoke,  but  only  a  haze. 
It  seemed  to  go  on  for  a  long  tune.  Nothing  happened  except 
that  now  and  then  a  hand  rose  languidly  into  the  haze, 
moving  its  pipe.  I  had  a  vision  of  Bill  Gordon  getting  up 
then  and  substituting  another  pipe.  He  seemed  rather 
larger  than  before,  but  beyond  that  I  felt  nothing.  Time 
began  to  grow  immaterial.  I  felt  a  little  cold.  I  did  not 
want  to  move.  A  vague  dream  formed  in  my  mind.  Was  I 
asleep? 

rv 

It  was  very  silent  everywhere  now.  Probably  it  was  very 
late,  three  or  four  in  the  morning.  In  my  half  sleep  I  realized 
that  Starnberg  was  holding  my  arm  above  the  elbow.  I 
lay  almost  on  his  shoulder.  When  I  realized  this  my  energy 
returned;  I  struggled.  After  a  time  he  opened  pearly-gray 
eyes  and  with  difficulty  whispered:  "I  sha'n't  hurt  you, 
Little  Bear."  I  don't  know  why  I  ceased  to  struggle,  unless  I 
was  too  stupefied.  A  little  later  1  observed  Julian.  He  was 


A  PARTY  207 

so  affected  that  I  had  to  take  his  arm  and  put  it  about  me. 
As  it  fell  limply  I  grew  frightened  and  staggered  up  from 
the  box  couch.  The  room  was  very  dim  as  I  swayed  into 
the  middle  of  it,  among  forms  equally  dim.  Only  Bill 
Gordon  had  fallen  asleep,  cross-legged,  his  head  against  the 
divan.  As  I  saw  him,  so  fair,  so  round,  so  healthy,  I  was 
ashamed  of  my  association  with  those  dim  bodies  lying  on 
the  couches,  bodies  that  dreamt,  that  for  a  moment  had 
escaped  ordinary  life.  It  was  terrible.  They  lay  so  still,  a 
little  pale,  their  mouths  open,  breathing  fast.  They  did  not 
look  happy,  for  their  features  were  a  little  awry.  Julian! 
Suppose  he'd  overdone  it!  Suppose  he  was  dead!  I 
dragged  him  up  by  the  shoulders.  He  stared  at  me,  blink- 
ing, but  he  was  not  quite  asleep,  for  he  let  me  help  him 
across  the  room.  We  floundered  into  the  hall.  I  opened  a 
door  before  I  found  the  bathroom.  I  had  only  one  idea  in 
my  mind — to  wake  him,  to  restore  him,  for  him  to  be  once 
more  my  wayward,  smiling  demigod.  I  remember  thinking, 
as  I  cried  a  little  and  dashed  water  over  his  face:  "Oh, 
this  isn't  the  life  for  me.  What  shall  I  do?  What  shall 
I  do?" 

I  got  him  downstairs;  I  felt  sick,  I  felt  ill.  The  scene  was 
imprinted  on  my  mind;  I  couldn't  get  away  from  it.  As  I 
propped  him  up  across  Leicester  Square,  irrelevant  questions 
came  to  me.  Did  men  like  women  of  a  class  less  than  theirs 
because  it  enhanced  their  sense  of  superiority?  I  thought 
"yes,"  and  dwelt  on  it  in  my  vague  state,  as  if  it  was  im- 
mensely important.  As  I  led  Julian  along,  he  a  little  restored 
by  the  cold,  these  questions  seemed  enormous;  the  opium 
magnified  thoughts  into  material  greenish  shapes.  Yet  I 
understood  with  incredible  lucidity.  I  saw  all  this  as  an 
evidence  of  despair;  I  saw  that  men  fled  to  strange  pleasures 
because  they  had  ceased  to  believe  in  simplicity  and  were 
running  away. 

I  can't  remember  any  more.  Only  that  for  another  hour 
the  enormous  shapes  illumined  by  bright  ideas  occupied  me. 
I  was  too  unhappy  to  remember  much  more.  In  the  flat 
Julian  was  almost  normal,  and  he  couldn't  understand  why 


208  URSULA   TRENT 

I  burst  into  tears  in  his  arms,  crying  that  he  couldn't  love 
me,  that  I  wasn't  his  sort,  that  those  were  the  people  he 
liked,  and  I  couldn't  be  like  them,  I  couldn't.  He  comforted 
me  without  understanding  me,  for  he  caressed  me.  In  those 
days  a  kiss  could  remove  doubt. 


Chapter  III 
Developing 


T  CAN  laugh  at  myself  now  when  I  reverse  the  film  and  see 
J.  myself  as  I  was  then,  the  little  white  goose,  as  Julian 
called  me  until  he  invented  Little  Bear.  Such  a  child,  and 
only  fifteen  months  out  of  home!  But  these  fifteen  hurried 
months  had  made  up  a  confused  past.  I  suppose  it  was 
natural  enough  that  I  should  feel  secure  and  hard,  for  it  is 
not  usual  that  in  fifteen  months  a  girl  should  have  been 
secretary  to  a  novelist,  clerk  in  a  drapery,  manicurist,  that 
she  should  have  forfeited  her  innocence,  lost  its  conqueror, 
and  within  that  short  time  come  to  provisional  finality. 

That  sounds  like  an  Irish  bull,  but  then,  in  life,  finality 
is  only  an  appearance.  It  is  merely  a  black  cloth,  say  a 
pleasant  prospect  in  the  country,  or  the  mansion  of  a  duke. 
You  settle  down  to  lean  over  a  stile,  or  to  sip  tea.  And  before 
you  know  it  the  stage  hands  have  snatched  away  the  stile, 
removed  your  half-empty  cup,  and  they're  running  about, 
the  stage  manager  yelling,  the  carpenter  driving  nails. 
You  stand  bewildered  while  the  scene  changes;  already 
about  you  they're  putting  up  another  set.  Life  is  a  tragi- 
comedy in  many  acts,  and  you've  got  to  look  sharp  or  you'll 
miss  your  cue. 

The  Ursula  Quin  of  that  tune — yes,  Ursula  Quin,  I  signed 
it  quite  naturally  to  tradesmen,  while  to  almost  everybody 
else  I  signed  Ursula,  or  Little  Bear — offered  a  strange  con- 
trast with  the  Ursula  Trent  who  had  passed  on  her  way  to 
the  conquest  of  London,  owner  of  forty  pounds  and  of  a 
cargo  of  hopes.  I  wasn't  exactly  conquering  London,  except 
that  I  was  living  comfortably  enough,  excitedly  enough,  in 


210  URSULA   TRENT 

the  only  London  that  counts.  It's  queer  to  me,  when  now 
I  look  through  my  window  at  the  gawky  hollyhocks  as  they 
shed  their  pink  cockades,  that  in  those  days  my  London, 
from  the  Park  to  the  Strand,  was  only  a  couple  of  miles  long. 
But  then  I  was  in  love,  and  it  would  not  have  been  wonder- 
ful if  London  had  seemed  only  as  long  as  Dover  Street. 
Lovers  make  a  selfish  world,  each  woman  a  desert  island  with 
her  Man  Friday.  But  Man  Friday  insists  upon  climbing 
hills  and  lighting  beacons;  he  is  happy  on  the  island,  but  he 
can't  help  signaling  to  the  ships  that  may  pass.  Man  wants 
love  eternal,  and  eternal  change.  Oh,  I  don't  mean  that 
Julian  wasn't  nice  to  me.  He  was  charming,  gay,  solicitous; 
he  responded  to  those  unruly  impulses  of  mine  that  demand 
of  a  man  the  immolation  of  his  vigor.  He  was  adorable, 
but  he  did  love  making  frocks.  If  only  he  had  thought  more 
of  making  money;  if  frocks  had  meant  to  him  only  good 
commissions,  I'd  have  liked  that.  But  he  often  returned 
puzzled  as  to  whether  he  should  use  crepe  georgette  or  cr£pe 
suzette,  and  forget  all  about  my  own  crepe.  He  was  an 
artist,  and  it's  terrible,  living  with  an  artist.  They  so 
seldom  notice  you  except  when  something  is  wrong  with 
their  artistic  emotions;  then  they  grumble.  I  contradict 
myself,  I  know;  he  was  charming,  he  was  solicitous,  he  did 
love  me,  but  it's  all  so  contradictory,  analyzing  the  emotion. 
It's  never  as  one  thinks  it  is,  or  was  as  it  will  be. 

I  knew  a  little  more  about  Julian  then,  though  he  was 
secretive.  His  name  was  not  Julian;  he  had  to  confess  that 
when  I  found  a  very  frayed  old  collar  behind  the  wardrobe, 
where  he  had  thrown  it  a  couple  of  years  before.  (This 
provided  me  with  bitter  criticism  when  I  invited  Beatrice 
to  confess  when  the  last  spring  cleaning  took  place.)  Oh, 
these  men!  They  live  in  dirt.  The  next  spring  cleaning,  I 
remember,  provided  my  first  quarrel  with  Julian.  He 
wanted  to  know  what  it  mattered  if  the  dust  was  all  under 
the  carpets.  Men!  Anyhow,  the  old  collar  was  marked 
A.  Q.  He  was  annoyed  because  I  said,  encouragingly,  "Do 
own  up,  Albert." 

"My  name's  not  Albert,"  he  snarled. 


DEVELOPING  211 

'"Alfred?  Or  what  about  Adolphus?  No.  You  don't 
look  like  an  Adolphus.  Can  it  be  Anastasius?  Or 
Athelstan?" 

"Oh,  do  shut  up!"  said  Julian.  "I  don't  like  my  nameJ 
That's  all  there  is  to  it.  And  how  do  I  know  your  name's 
Ursula?" 

I  could  not  get  it  out  of  him.  He  was  vain  about  that  sort 
of  thing.  So  it  must  have  been  Albert.  Albert  wasn't  so 
romantic  as  Julian,  of  course,  but  I'd  still  have  loved  him  a 
little.  He  had  a  mother,  too,  who  lived  in  the  country. 
Later,  it  seemed,  she  lived  near  London,  in  North  London. 
I  extracted  from  him  that  it  was  near  Highbury.  Evidently 
he  never  went  near  her.  He  and  his  sister  never  saw  their 
relatives.  I  understand  him  better  now.  I  realize  Julian  and 
Ida  as  the  clever  children  of  a  lower  middle-class  family, 
who  had  taken  from  their  education  that  which  was  super- 
ficially useful,  in  whom  a  sort  of  cockney  intelligence  had 
developed  shallow  brilliancy.  Even  now  I  don't  know  what 
he  had  done  in  his  first  dozen  years  of  manhood.  Some  in- 
stinct brought  him  to  associate  with  the  public-school 
product,  and  he  had  achieved  an  extraordinary  imitation, 
tempered  by  his  taste  for  colors  and  lines. 

What  a  fool  and  snob  I  still  am  to  worry  about  these  things! 
Wherever  he  came  from,  he  was  still  charming.  What  more 
could  I  want?  But  lovers  are  greedy;  they  want  to  know 
everything  of  each  other,  so  that  they  may  possess  each 
other  entirely. 

He  was  giving  me  a  good  life.  How  much  he  earned  I 
don't  know;  probably  in  salary  and  commission  a  couple  of 
thousand  a  year,  and,  as  he  was  reckless,  we  enjoyed  our- 
selves. Not  only  did  I  have  all  the  frocks  I  wanted,  and 
enough  in  my  purse  to  take  a  friend  to  lunch  at  my  favorite 
Berkeley,  but  we  went  about.  Almost  every  night  we  went 
to  a  dance  club  or  to  the  theater.  Also,  some  of  the  people 
we  knew  could  generally  give  us  a  couple  of  stalls.  When 
we  had  nothing  to  do,  we  either  went  to  the  cinema,  or  rang 
the  bell  of  friendly  flats  until  we  found  somebody  at  home. 
I  liked  going  to  the  cinema  then.  We  didn't  go  as  outsiders. 


212  URSULA  TRENT 

We  knew  the  people  in  the  trade;  we  saw  the  film  that  Mr. 
Satterthwaite  had  been  talking  of,  or  we  witnessed  our  own 
Sadie,  or  Christine,  posturing  in  a  play.  Sadie  was  rather 
too  worn,  I  thought,  to  have  her  magnified  features  flashed 
on  the  screen. 

Also,  I  was  penetrating  into  the  complex  affairs  of  my 
own  acquaintances.  I  knew  now  that  The  Woman 
despaired  of  conquering  Gordon's  affections,  because  he 
placed  love  a  long  way  behind  ambition;  he  could  seldom 
be  induced  to  forget  that  he  was  in  training.  I  came 
to  know  that  Pawlett  had  practically  given  up  Sadie,  and 
that  their  appearances  together  in  restaurants  were  of  a 
formal  character.  Indeed,  he  was  more  often  with  Christine 
Waldron,  while  Miltiades  continued  negligently  to  follow 
his  flighty  mistress,  smoking  cigars  and  thinking  of  some- 
thing else.  Also,  there  were  in  our  set  standard  subjects, 
such  as  the  Bentham  menage.  Both  were  actors.  Roderick 
Bentham  was  extraordinarily  good-looking  in  a  mulish  way, 
while  his  wife,  Ninette,  had  the  most  beautiful  dark-red  hair 
that  I  have  ever  seen,  and  a  skin  like  cream.  Her  bright 
green  eyes  burned  like  emeralds.  They  were  very  unhappy; 
it  was  known  that  this  delicate-looking  actor  knocked  his 
wife  about,  tortured  her  in  secret,  cruel  ways  that  showed 
no  marks.  One  saw  that  Ninette's  eyes  were  often  sur- 
rounded by  a  mauve  aura  left  by  tears,  and  that  Walter 
Slindon  sometimes  uttered  threats  against  Roderick. 

"If  she  didn't  love  him  still,"  he  confided  to  me  once, 
"I'd  knock  his  head  off.  No" — his  voice  became  ghoulish — 
"I  wouldn't  do  that.  I'd  tie  him  up  and  cut  him  to  pieces. 
I'd  do  slow  things  to  him,  things  that  took  tune,  with  acids 
and  pocket  knives." 

"Don't  be  horrid,"  I  said.  "He's  done  you  no  harm. 
Besides,  perhaps  it  isn't  true." 

Slindon  did  not  reply;  I  understood  that  he  felt  too  much 
to  deliver  himself  to  a  stranger.  He  was  a  queer  person. 
One  would  not  have  thought  that  a  revue  writer,  rather 
over  forty,  with  a  pasty  complexion  and  a  ragged  yellow 
mustache,  could  conceive  such  an  ideal  passion.  Walter 


DEVELOPING  213 

Slindon  loved  Ninette  so  wholly,  so  quietly,  and  so  hope- 
lessly, that  even  in  our  set  people  didn't  laugh  at  him.  He 
was,  I  felt,  the  perfect  knight,  and  it  was  terrible  to  think 
that  he  could  not  tilt  against  the  dragon  who  held  his  lady, 
because  in  her  folly  she  still  seemed  to  care  for  the  handsome 
Roderick. 

Eddies!  That  was  our  world.  In  one  eddy  I  can  see 
Too  too  whirling,  her  fan1  hair  malignantly  curling  before  the 
eyes  of  Lewis  Appleford,  who  persistently  asked  her  to  marry 
him,  but  whom  she  regularly  refused.  She  went  about  with 
him,  all  the  same,  in  no  flirtatious  spirit,  but  because  she  was 
too  frigid  to  admit  the  possibility  of  a  self-surrender.  I 
perceived  other  emotional  eddies,  such  as  the  one  where  Ida 
Quin  played  with  Harry  Lockwood.  She  talked  to  me  about 
it  once. 

"Harry's  all  right,"  she  said.  "I  needn't  talk  pi  to  you, 
need  I?  Only,  he's  got  to  do  something  for  me." 

"But  you  don't?  ..."  I  began,  then  stopped.  Obviously 
Ida  wouldn't  take  money  from  a  man. 

"Wouldn't  what?" 

"Never  mind.    Go  on,"  I  said. 

"Well,  I  mean,  there's  Harry  with  three  theaters  in  his 
hands,  and  here's  little  me  wanting  a  job.  I  don't  mind  him; 
I  rather  like  him.  But  if  he  can't  get  me  a  part,  he  can't  be 
very  fond  of  me." 

"I  see,"  I  said. 

"Of  course,"  said  Ida,  indignantly,  "I  do  like  him,  I  really 
do." 

I  believe  she  really  did.  Ida  was  rather  like  Vera  Westley. 
If  a  man  gave  Vera  money  she  loved  him.  Ida  was  more 
grasping.  Then  there  were  the  maneuvers  of  Karl  Meer- 
brook.  He  was  rather  a  pest,  because  his  new  light  opera 
embodied  a  chance  in  his  method;  whenever  he  encountered 
a  piano  he  insisted  on  playing  portions  that  illustrated  his 
new  impulse.  I  heard  many  rumors  of  Meerbrook's  opera. 
He  wanted  Starnberg  to  stage  it,  but  the  American  would 
not  commit  himself,  and  news  came  as  diplomatic  hints, 
Sadie  was  doing  something  or  other.  Julian  had  had  lunch 


214  URSULA   TRENT 

with  Starnberg,  never  mind  why.  I'd  see  by  and  by.  It  was 
exciting.  Money  and  passion  were  so  intermingled  in  our 
world  that  one  never  knew  which  one  influenced  the  other. 
The  only  one  who  didn't  trouble  was  Lord  Alfred  Lydbrook. 
He  had  all  the  characteristics  of  the  gentleman  and  the  book- 
maker; he  laughed  at  Tootoo's  schemes,  told  Christine  and 
Sadie  that  Pawlett  loved  only  her,  informed  Meerbrook  that 
his  music  was  tripe,  and,  taking  a  fancy  to  me,  gave  me  an 
emerald  pendant,  without  even  asking  for  leave  to  slip  it 
round  my  neck.  Arf  a  Mo'  was  right;  Lord  Alfred  was  a 
card. 


I  was  getting  used  to  these  new  ways  and  these  new  clothes. 
Also,  I  took  more  coolly  the  accompaniments  of  my  new 
position.  I  was  fair  game  now,  though  everybody  addressed 
my  envelopes  to  Mrs.  Quin.  They  knew  I  was  ...  an  under- 
study. It  was  not  only  opium  had  enabled  Starnberg  to 
hold  my  hand  half-unrebuked;  it  was  a  laxness  arising  from 
the  surroundings  where  people  so  swiftly  came  together  and 
apart,  where  love  did  exist,  but  where  passion  reigned,  where 
money  crept  in  to  corrupt  and  glorify.  So  for  some  time  I 
was  amused  by  an  elderly  man  called  Sir  Charles  Baldwin, 
who  was,  as  Lady  Edderton  used  to  put  it,  "black  as  a  new 
knight."  Pepper-and-salt  rather  than  black,  perhaps,  but 
presentable,  with  his  hair  cut  rather  too  close  because  he 
wanted  to  look  military,  his  clothes  excellent,  but  always  a 
little  too  new,  and  a  head  voice  a  little  too  good,  which  oc- 
casionally betrayed  him  into  a  rather  artificial  "Eh,  what?" 
He  had  made  his  money  in  plush.  The  war  found  him  well- 
to-do  and  left  him  incalculably  rich.  So  he  left  Manchester, 
where  Lady  Baldwin,  married  a  little  too  early  to  carry  off 
her  ladyship  as  Sir  Charles  would  have  had  it,  controlled  a 
large  house  in  the  suburbs,  and  equally  large  boys  and  girls. 
She  never  came  to  town;  so  Sir  Charles,  having  taken  a  flat 
in  Piccadilly,  decided  to  patronize  the  arts.  That  is  to  say, 
he  gave  expensive  meals  to  anybody  who  painted,  wrote, 
and  especially  to  people  connected  with  the  theater.  At 


DEVELOPING  215 

bottom,  everything  except  the  theater  and  the  cinema  rather 
worried  him. 

"These  writing  chaps,"  he  confided  to  me  suddenly,  "you 
never  know  what  they're  getting  at.  My  idea  is  they're 
getting  at  you,  and  you  don't  quite  know  it.  Eh,  what? 
Course,  some  of  them  are  all  right.  I  met  F.  M.  Key  the 
other  day.  He's  a  perfect  gentleman.  But  somebody 
brought  along  to  the  Ritz,  the  other  day,  a  fellow  that  was 
all  hair,  and  it  hadn't  been  combed  since  it  started  growing. 
Sat  there  in  brown  tweeds.  I  thought  he'd  get  turned  out, 
but  what  could  I  do?  Too  too  brought  him  along;  guess  she 
met  him  in  the  tube.  But  I  had  to  stop  him  smoking  a 
pipe.  I  tell  you,  Mrs.  Quin,  those  fellows,  they  don't  get  the 
hang  of  the  Ritz.  Eh,  what?  Give  me  the  theater  lot." 

"Yes,  they're  friendlier,  aren't  they?" 

Sir  Charles  dilated  upon  theatrical  charms.  Such  good 
fellows!  Such  ripping  girls!  No  nonsense  about  'em! 
Nothing  high-brow  about  'em.  He  soon  gave  up  the  writers, 
and  later  on  the  painters  and  sculptors.  Probably  this  had 
to  do  with  his  bust  by  Friedland. 

"Don't  know  what  the  fellow  meant  by  it,"  he  fumed. 
"When  I  went  to  him  and  told  him  that  I  looked  as  if  I  was 
going  to  be  hung,  do  you  know  what  he  said?  It's  no  good 
your  guessing;  he  said  he  was  a  sculptor  of  souls." 

I  laughed.  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  had  a  vision  of  Sir 
Charles's  soul. 

"It's  all  very  well  laughing.  I  tell  you,  Mrs.  Quin,  I  don't 
believe  in  monkeying  about  with  souls.  It  isn't  done.  Eh, 
what?  Anyhow,  I  told  him  I  wouldn't  pay  for  it  and  he 
could  sue  me.  Of  course  he  didn't.  Those  fellows  never 
have  any  money.  Can't  go  into  court  against  people  like 
me.  But  he  took  it  out  of  me  all  the  same;  had  the  thing 
photographed  and  circulated  it  in  all  the  papers." 

"But  couldn't  you  interfere?" 

"No.  My  lawyer  said  that  it  was  his  copyright,  and  ad- 
vised me  to  buy  it.  I'll  see  him  damned  first.  You  don't  get 
round  Charlie  B.  by  making  a  caricature  of  his  soul.  But 
you  wait.  I'll  see  him  in  the  gutter  yet." 


216  URSULA   TRENT 

His  callous  feelings  were  rather  frightening.  I  knew  that 
he  would  be  pitiless,  but  he  admired  me  and  did  not  conceal 
his  admiration,  so  I  couldn't  help  liking  him  a  little. 

It  was  men  like  Sir  Charles  made  me  feel  the  difficulty  of 
modern  dressing.  I  hadn't  thought  of  it  until  one  evening 
Walter  Slindon  said  to  me,  "I  do  wish  you  women  wouldn't 
undress  so  much  to  dance." 

"Why  not?    Don't  you  like  it,  you  rude  man?" 

"Of  course  I  do,  and  that's  the  trouble.  With  this  pano- 
rama of  arm  and  shoulder,  to  say  nothing  of  the  rest,  one 
simply  doesn't  know  where  to  look.  You  see,  one  doesn't 
want  to  be  indiscreet." 

I  smiled,  and  almost  squeezed  his  hand  as  we  danced. 
He  was  really  rather  sweet,  this  ugly,  middle-aged  idealist. 
Sir  Charles  was  very  different.  He  had,  well  ...  an  X-ray 
eye.  When  he  stared  at  me  I  always  felt  dressed  in  tulle. 
It  was  terrifying.  Sir  Charles  always  got  his  own  way  in 
business.  What  would  I  do  if  in  his  eyes  I  acquired  the 
importance  of  a  deal? 

We're  funny,  we  women.  In  the  evening  we  wear  as 
little  as  we  can,  and  we're  offended  if  anybody  notices  it. 
We  find  a  man's  eyes  resting  upon  us,  and  more  or  less  say, 
"How  dare  you?"  We're  extraordinarily  modest  until  con- 
vention legalizes  a  new  exposure.  For  instance,  at  my 
coming-out  ball,  twelve  years  ago,  I  did  not  see  a  single  frock 
that  revealed  the  armpit;  I  would  have  been  horrified  if  the 
new  frocks,  stopping  halfway  up  the  flank,  had  then  been 
shown  me.  I  began  by  being  self-conscious  when  I  wore 
them,  but  as  the  others  wore  the  same  I  thought  no  more 
about  it.  It  isn't  fair  to  the  men;  it  makes  them  shy.  And 
we're  so  unreasonable;  we  cut  our  frocks  down  to  the  waist; 
after  that  we  tell  one  another  in  horrified  whispers:  "Don't 
dance  with  that  man.  Do  you  know  ...  he  had  the  cheek  to 
put  his  hand  on  my  back."  "What  an  outsider!"  says  the 
other  woman.  I  am  not  sure  that  man  isn't  the  modest  sex, 
whatever  modesty  may  be.  Even  Julian  was  embarrassed  if 
I  stayed  in  the  room  while  he  was  dressing  for  dinner. 
They're  not  used  to  it,  I  suppose.  Or  perhaps  they  don't 


DEVELOPING  217 

trust  themselves  as  we  do;  they  aren't  so  sure  of  being 
agreeable  to  our  eye.  We  are  always  quite  sure;  often  it's 
a  pity  we  are. 

in 

I  thought  I  knew  my  Julian  now.  He  seemed  single- 
minded,  and  to  have  very  little  in  his  life  except  his  work  and 
me.  He  played  no  games;  in  fact  he  cared  little  for  exercise. 
He  must  have  played  games  once  upon  a  time,  but  he  refused 
to  talk  of  them,  probably  because  he  had  not  been  to  a  uni- 
versity and  did  not  care  to  say  so.  His  work  was  his  main 
pleasure;  the  flat  was  perpetually  littered  with  strips  of 
material  that  he  was  experimenting  with,  designs,  and  frag- 
ments of  trimmings.  He  worked  with  the  help  of  dolls,  and 
I  think  we  came  closer  together  because  I  entered  into  this 
pastime  and  worked  with  him;  I  made  fantastic  clothes  for 
these  creatures  twelve  inches  high.  I  smile  at  myself  a  little 
sorrowfully  as  I  remember  myself  in  the  evenings,  very 
serious,  my  head  bent  over  the  table,  close  to  his,  as  I  cut 
out  gold  tissue  for  a  court  train. 

"Good,"  says  Julian.  "We'll  call  that  'The  Profiteer.* 
And  you  might  think  of  something  in  sackcloth  with  a  trim- 
ming of  ashes;  we'll  call  that  'The  New  Poor.'" 

We  laughed  and  made  love  a  great  deal  while  we  created 
those  frocks,  some  of  which  Julian  eventually  reproduced  on 
the  human  scale.  It  was  rather  exciting,  and  I  had  a  success 
with  an  undergarment  that  began  with  lace  at  the  top  and 
ended  as  a  crepe-de-Chine  petticoat.  Julian  made  me  shy 
by  carrying  it  about  for  several  days  and  showing  it  to  all 
our  acquaintances. 

"Look  at  Little  Bear's  invention,"  he  would  say.  "The 
blouse  chemise.  Put  on  a  skirt,  and  there  you  are,  ready  to 
lunch  at  Jules's.  Take  off  the  skirt  and  there  you  are,  still 
ready." 

"Don't  call  it  the  blouse  chemise,"  said  Arf  a  Mo*. 
"Call  it  'A  Little  Bear';  that'll  be  complimentary  and 
true." 

Finally  the  doll  was  given  to  a  charity  bazaar  and  realized 


218  URSULA   TRENT 

an  enormous  price,  thanks  to  Julian's  signature.  I  didn't 
like  that  much. 

"  Why  not?  "  he  said.    " It  advertises  me." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  I  replied,  not  quite  realizing  my  own 
repulsion.  Then  I  found  it.  "I  mean,  you're  selling 
something." 

"Well,  I  sell  frocks  all  day." 

"Not  your  own  frocks.    You  only  design  them,  Julian." 

He  laughed  as  he  understood.  "Oh,  you  mean  it's  trade, 
whereas  if  I  only  design  I'm  professional." 

I  felt  rather  ashamed  of  myself.  Ursula  Trent  of  Giber 
Court  was  such  a  long  time  dying.  That  particular  Ursula 
was  also  much  annoyed  by  another  incident.  Julian  had 
made  friends  with  the  art  editor  of  an  illustrated  weekly,  I 
forget  which.  A  few  weeks  later  there  appeared  a  full-page 
set  of  photographs  of  Julian  engaged  in  dressing  a  statue 
of  Diana  in  modern  clothes.  The  first  picture  was  awful. 
He  was  standing  by  the  statue,  holding  her  hand,  and  looking 
at  her  with  an  air  of  idiotic  adoration.  (Was  I  a  little  jeal- 
ous?) In  the  second  he  was  making  the  goddess  absurd 
with  chemise  and  stays.  Camisole  and  petticoat  followed, 
then  dance  frock.  But  the  fifth  picture  was  just  dreadful; 
he  was  making  her  up.  In  the  sixth,  the  goddess  had  eye- 
brows, flushed  cheeks,  a  salved  mouth;  on  her  scragged  hair 
rested  one  of  those  lovely  little  shiny  straws  that  look  like 
a  man's  bowler  hat. 

"Don't  you  like  it?"  asked  Julian.  As  I  did  not  reply, 
"Don't  you  think  she  looks  charming?" 

"Yes." 

"Not  exactly  the  virgin  goddess,  don't  you  think?" 
Then  he  perceived  my  irritation  and  pressed  me  to  confess. 
At  last  he  found  out  that  I  did  not  like  public  mummery. 
That  was  all  he  could  understand.  I  could  not  manage  to 
get  out  that  the  Trents  of  Ciber  Court  don't  like  being 
advertised. 


Chapter  IV 
Suspicion 


S  we  were  walking  along  Piccadilly,  one  Saturday  after- 
noon,  we  met  Sadie,  who  was  gazing  into  the  windows 
of  Hatchard's. 

"How  now?"  said  Julian,  taking  her  by  the  elbow.  "Are 
you  going  to  improve  your  mind?  What's  your  fancy? 
The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire "  ? 

She  looked  at  us  vaguely.  "Hullo!  Where  are  you  two 
off  to  ?  "  Without  letting  us  reply :  "  It's  four  o'clock.  Come 
and  have  tea." 

"Right-o!"  said  Julian.  We  followed  her  down  a  side 
street  into  one  of  those  little  underground  places  where  the 
chairs  are  placed  two  and  two,  where  a  temporary  Garden 
of  Eden  is  contrived  by  screens,  and  serpentine  temptation 
is  impersonated  by  a  discreet  waitress. 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Julian,  after  a  moment,  for 
Sadie  was  silent.  A  look  of  strain  was  on  her  face. 

"Matter?    Same  old  game — Pawlett  again." 

"Oh!"  I  said.  "I  thought  you  said  you  didn't  care  for 
him." 

"Care  about  him,  the  swine!  Course  I  don't  care  about 
him.  But  I  won't  have  him  giving  me  the  chuck." 

"Now,  Sadie,"  said  Julian,  soothing,  "don't  be  absurd. 
He  hasn't  given  you  the  chuck." 

"No,"  said  Sadie,  ferociously,  "he  hasn't,  because  he's 
not  sure  of  Christine  yet.  He's  only  keeping  me  to  make 
the  pace." 

"Look  here,  old  girl,"  he  said,  "don't  think  I'm  going  to 
be  sorry  for  you,  or  anything  rotten  like  that.  Perhaps  it 
15 


220  URSULA   TRENT 

isn't  as  bad  as  you  think.  I  don't  think  he's  really  after 
Christine,  any  more  than  he's  after  anybody  else." 

"Don't  you  think  so?"  said  Sadie,  anxious  to  believe  him. 

" Of  course  I  think  so.  How  long  have  you  been  together?  " 

"Four  years." 

"Well,  then,  he's  not  going  to  quit  as  easy  as  all  that.  I 
think  it  'd  be  a  rotten  thing  for  him  to  do." 

"I'll  drown  myself  if  he  does." 

"Oh  no,  you  won't,  Sadie.  It  'd  be  a  waste  to  drown  a 
pretty  woman  like  you." 

She  smiled  rather  sadly.  "You  may  think  that,  but  what 
does  Pawlett  think?" 

"He  thinks  just  as  I  do.    Let  me  talk  to  him." 

"Oh,  I  couldn't !    I'm  not  going  to  have  any  favors  asked." 

"I  won't  ask  favors,  you  silly  kid,"  said  Julian.  "Only 
he  could  be  made  to  understand."  He  went  on  talking  for 
a  long  time,  and  more  and  more  Sadie  fell  under  the  sway  of 
the  charming  voice  that  said  optimistic  things.  Julian  began 
to  advise  her.  She  must  adopt  those  characteristics  which 
in  her  rival  attracted  Mr.  Pawlett.  Christine  had  the  gift 
of  lovely  silences,  which  arose  from  the  fact  that  she  never 
had  an  idea.  Well,  Sadie  must  afford  Mr.  Pawlett  lovely 
silences.  Christine  looked  lovely  in  green,  but  Sadie  looked 
lovely  in  blue.  Christine  played  the  piano  rather  well; 
Sadie  could  sing. 

"Oh  dear!"  she  said  at  last,  as  we  rose,  "you  are  nice  to 
me,"  and  looked  at  him  so  fondly  that  I  was  a  little  annoyed.  I 
liked  him  being  nice  to  her;  he  was  very  sweet,  and  very  kind, 
and  so  understanding;  of  course  this  moved  Sadie.  It  frigh- 
tened me.  Other  women  must  find  him  as  adorable  as  I  did. 

"Oh  dear!  what  a  fright  I  look!"  said  Sadie,  taking  out 
her  mirror  and  powder  puff.  She  finished  the  operation, 
salved  her  mouth,  ordered  her  hair.  We  walked  out,  chatter- 
ing. In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  had  restored  her  pride. 

n 

We  saw  a  good  deal  of  Sadie  just  then,  for  we  were  the  only 
people  who  had  helped  her;  so  she  had  no  reason  to  be 


SUSPICION  221 

ashamed.  We  were  her  confessors;  indeed,  we  got  a  little  too 
much  of  her,  for  women  who  have  love  troubles  are  intoler- 
ably proud  of  them.  They  feel  that  they  are  heroines  in  a 
drama,  and  they  want  to  perform.  Also,  they  are  most 
egotistic.  Their  trouble  blots  out  the  rest  of  the  world.  It 
cannot  occur  to  them  that  others  lend  only  languid  interest 
to  these  things,  that  sympathy  transmutes  itself  into  con- 
tempt. I  began  by  being  sorry  for  Sadie.  I  went  on  to  think 
her  a  poor  thing,  to  despise  her.  It  was  so  undignified  to 
cling  to  her  fugitive  relationship. 

We  need  not  have  bothered  to  keep  our  sympathy  secret, 
for  everybody  was  half  amused  by  the  affair  and  seemed  to 
guess  as  much  as  we  knew.  Karl  Meerbrook,  who  came  to 
dinner,  was  as  pro-Christine  as  we  were  pro-Sadie,  and 
brought  news  from  the  other  front.  We  did  not  often  ask 
people  to  dinner;  indeed,  we  seldom  dined  at  the  flat,  be- 
cause the  cooking  was  poor  and  somehow  things  got  cold. 
But  this  was  a  rainy  evening,  and  Meerbrook  had  come  in 
with  Julian.  During  most  of  dinner  the  talk  was  of  Sadie, 
but  when  the  two  men  settled  to  their  cigars  Meerbrook 
grew  expansive  on  the  subject  of  his  light  opera.  He  had,  it 
seemed,  ambitions.  Meerbrook  was  a  small,  rather  stout 
little  dark  man,  with  the  large  features  and  intelligent  hands 
of  the  musician.  His  light  opera  was  very  precious  to  him. 

"You  know,"  he  said,  suddenly,  "it's  all  very  well  going 
on  like  this,  year  after  year,  doing  music  that  '11  show  off  a 
leg,  but  one  gets  sick  of  it.  Sick  of  it,"  he  repeated,  fero- 
ciously. "Nice,  jingly  little  tunes  that  Bert  and  Mybel  can 
pick  up  and  whistle.  Make  it  catchy!  Give  us  a  bit  of 
variety!  I  can  hear  those  swines  of  managers,  that  don't 
know  a  sonata  from  a  snore.  *Give  it  a  bit  of  life,  Karl. 
We  don't  want  any  of  your  damned  leitmotifs.  What  you 
want  to  dish  up  that  tune  again  what  you  had  in  Act  One? 
What's  the  ideer,  Karl?'  Ah!  in  their  own  words,  they  give 
me  the  sick." 

We  laughed.  "Surely  it  isn't  as  bad  as  all  that,"  said 
Julian.  "They've  let  you  do  charming  things.  What's 
wrong  with  'Gloria'?" 


222  URSULA   TRENT 

"Oh,  'Gloria'!"  said  Meerbrook,  bitterly.  "You  should 
have  seen  the  score  before  they  started  messing  about  with  it. 
Before  they  cut  out  the  quartet  in  Act  Two,  and  before 
they  made  me  shove  hi  three  songs  for  that  white  cow  of  a 
Bella  Thursby.  It's  murder,  I  tell  you.  Of  course  it  pays. 
But  that  isn't  what  I  wanted  to  do.  When  I  was  a  kid,  I 
remember  coming  back  from  school  and  walking  along  the 
Bethnal  Green  Road,  drunk.  Drunk,  with  the  song  in 
my  head,  a  thing  that  swelled  like  a  hundred  organs. 
I've  half  forgotten  it.  The  motorbuses  have  drowned 
it.  Only  now  and  then  it  gets  through  the  buses.  I  stop 
before  the  fountain  in  the  Circus,  and  the  flower  sellers 
for  a  moment  are  dressed  up  in  pink  brocade,  while  Cupid 
with  a  lute  plays  .  .  .  oh,  like  Locatelli,  like  Couperin — any- 
body— until  a  conductor  shouts:  'No,  lidy!  This  don't 
go  ter  Camberwell.  Try  the  Twelve  A.'  O  God!" 

We  were  silent  for  a  moment.  Julian  looked  curiously  at 
this  absurd,  hysterical  figure  with  its  face  buried  in  its  hands. 
As  for  me,  I  supposed  musicians  were  like  that,  but  his  pas- 
sion shook  me.  I  liked  the  shameless  revelation  of  his  origins, 
this  spirit  in  prison.  For  a  moment,  this  writer  of  occasional 
music,  this  catchy  firefly,  was  to  me  a  great  musician.  He 
raised  his  head,  smiled  at  us,  half  ashamed. 

"What  rot  I  talk!  One's  got  to  live."  He  grew  serious. 
"But  perhaps  you  think  I'm  just  talking  nonsense.  I'm  not. 
This  new  thing  of  mine,  I  don't  know  whether  it's  good,  but 
there  isn't  a  moment  when  somebody  can  bellow,  'Girls!' 
(upon  which  enter  twenty-four  seminudes).  Opportunities 
for  other  girls  than  the  prima  donna.  No  chance  for  Harry 
Tate's  mustache.  It's  music,  my  boy,  music.  What  it's 
worth,  I  don't  know.  .  .  ."  He  threw  up  his  hands.  "It's 
the  best  I  can  do.  Like  to  hear  some  of  it?  " 

He  looked  triumphant  and  afraid,  like  a  dog  frisking  for  a 
walk,  that  may  be  left  behind. 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Julian,  settling  to  his  cigar.  As  he 
spoke  Meerbrook  went  to  the  piano,  struck  a  few  chords, 
grumbled.  "Damn  the  pitch.  Why  do  you  have  it  so  high? 
This  damned  French  pitch."  At  last  he  began  to  play,  com- 


SUSPICION  223 

meriting  as  he  went,  "Tinkle,  tinkle,  that's  the  overture  .  .  . 
played  in  the  dark,  of  course.  .  .  ."  He  said  nothing  for  a 
moment.  Then,  "Now,  mark  the  oboe."  I  caught  a  grin 
of  delight  upon  his  features.  I  was  enormously  impressed, 
though  the  music  was  charming  rather  than  profound.  It 
was,  well,  how  shall  I  put  it?  Dance  music  that  had  been 
laid  up  in  lavender  so  long  that  it  had  refined  itself  down  into 
a  sort  of  pattern.  I  saw  what  he  meant  by  lutes  and  pink 
brocade. 

He  played  two  arias  and  a  chorus  out  of  the  first  act,  jump- 
ing up  and  down  upon  his  stool,  wild  with  excitement.  He 
kicked  the  piano  after  breaking  down  in  the  middle  of  the 
quintet  at  the  end  of  the  second  act,  where  a  more  solid 
note  was  found  that  did  not  "get  me,"  until  he  played  what 
he  called  the  twentieth-seventeenth-century  music  of  the 
third  act.  It  was  perfectly  delicious.  I  can  define  it  only 
by  calling  it  ragtime  arranged  by  Bach.  He  had  picked  out 
the  syncopation  by  means  of  successive  trebles,  interjecting 
at  intervals  what  I  cannot  explain  because  I  know  no  har- 
mony, joyful  and  unexpected  chords.  He  ended  up  mag- 
nificently with  a  combination  of  crashing  bass  notes  (pre- 
sumably brass),  lightened  up  by  trumpets.  At  least  so  he 
shouted  excitedly,  while  he  played,  perspiring  abundantly, 
and  at  last  leaping  off  the  piano  stool  to  collapse  in  an  arm- 
chair, wiping  his  head  and  hysterically  begging  us  to  say 
that  it  was  all  right. 

"I  think  it's  lovely,"  I  said.    "And  so  fresh." 

"Do  you  think  they'll  stage  it?" 

"Anyhow,  it's  original,"  said  Julian. 

"Do  you  think  they'll  stage  it?"  repeated  Meerbrook, 
taut  with  anxiety. 

"Of  course  it  '11  get  on,"  I  said.  "After  all,  you're  very 
well  known." 

"Mind  you,"  said  Julian,  "it  '11  depend  a  lot  upon  the  pro- 
ducer. The  Sicilian  scene  will  have  to  be  well  done  if  it  isn't 
to  look  like  Earl's  Court,  or  even  Covent  Garden.  And  the 
dresses  '11  have  to  be  good." 

"Of  course,"  said  Meerbrook.     "But  you  can  be  sure 


224  URSULA   TRENT 

that  I'm  not  going  to  hand  it  over  to  any  damn  fool.  If  I 
can  find  anybody,"  he  added,  miserably. 

"You're  sure  to  find  somebody,"  I  said.  "Why  not  offer 
it  to  Mr.  Starnberg?" 

"He  won't  touch  it.  Says  it's  art.  Which  is  his  way  of 
saying,  'Off  with  its  head.'" 

"I  suppose  you've  talked  to  Lockwood?"  remarked 
Julian. 

"Oh,  Lockwood!  Tcha!  Lockwood  says  (you  know  his 
oily  way),  'I  should  be  only  too  utterly  delighted,  Mr.  Meer- 
brook,  only  you  do  not  provide  the  spectacular  opportuni- 
ties in  which  generally  your  genius  is  so  fecund.'  Oh,  the 
swine!  I  like  Starnberg  better.  At  least  you  can  tell  what 
he  is  from  his  grunt."  Despair  overwhelmed  him.  "It  will 
never  get  on.  I  shall  never  do  any  good.  This  country  is 
done  for.  I'd  better  go  back  and  write  revue  music;  some- 
thing like  'Upsidedown'  or  'Insideout.'"  He  looked  about 
to  weep. 

Then  Julian  said:  "Oh,  I  don't  know.    Not  if  it  was  well 


"Damn  it  all!"  cried  Meerbrook,  hysterically.  "You 
seem  to  think  only  the  dresses  matter." 

"Well,  you  think  only  the  music  matters." 

I  had  to  laugh  at  the  two  rival  artists,  but  by  degrees  I 
perceived  that  something  else  was  happening,  for  Julian 
repeated: 

"If  the  manager  understood  how  it  would  be  staged  and 
how  it  might  be  dressed,  he  might  look  at  it  differently." 

"Manager?    I've  seen  them  all." 

"If  there  isn't  a  manager,"  said  Julian,  smoothly,  "one 
must  create  a  manager.  Yesterday  a  man  was  a  capitalist; 
to-day  he's  a  manager;  to-morrow  he's  a  bankrupt." 

"Do  you  suggest  that  my  opera  would  bankrupt  .  .  .*' 

"Don't  be  absurd.    A  capitalist  can  be  got." 

"I  don't  know  any  capitalists." 

"No  more  do  I.  Still,  in  my  profession  one  meets  a  lot  of 
rich  women.  Some  are  very  pretty,  and  their  husbands  are 
weak."  He  paused,  and  added,  meditatively:  "I  should 


SUSPICION  225 

like  to  dress  an  opera,  to  have  a  really  big  job,  say  sixty 
costumes.  Your  opera  should  run  to  that,  shouldn't  it?" 

"Not  quite.  Twenty-two  characters,  and  three  acts; 
well  .  .  .  say  forty." 

"Ah!"  said  Julian,  "it  would  be  fun.  If  only  one  could 
find  the  capitalist." 

Meerbrook  stared  at  him  for  a  moment  and  suddenly  said: 
"Look  here,  if  you  get  that  play  staged  you  shall  have  the 
dressing.  I'll  make  it  a  condition  of  my  contract  and  put  it 
in  writing  to  you." 

Then  I  felt  that  Julian  had  brought  Meerbrook  to  suggest 
the  thing  that  he  himself  would  have  proposed.  Rather 
cleverly,  he  seemed  to  hesitate.  "Oh!  It  hadn't  struck  me 
like  that,  Karl.  You  see,  it's  not  exactly  in  my  line  to  get 
hold  of  capital." 

"I  wish  you  would,"  said  Meerbrook,  imploringly.  "If 
this  thing  isn't  staged  I  shall .  .  .  drown  myself." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  do  that,"  said  Julian.  "I'll  try. 
Anyhow,  on  the  chance  of  my  bringing  it  off,  let  me  have  a 
letter  to  that  effect  when  you  get  home  to-night.  That  can't 
do  any  harm,  can  it?" 

ra 

It  was  ten  o'clock.  We  decided  to  go  to  a  cinema.  We 
couldn't  go  to  bed  at  ten.  As  I  followed  the  men,  who 
elaborated  their  scheme,  I  felt  a  certain  resentment  against 
Julian.  His  excessive  cleverness  was  almost  unpleasant 
when  contrasted  with  the  ebullient  sincerity  of  the  musician. 
"Stealing  a  child's  penny,"  I  thought.  Then  I  told  myself 
not  to  be  a  fool  and  that  business  was  business.  But  the 
Trents  aren't  good  at  business;  it  took  me  some  time  to  sort 
out  that  I  didn't  mind  Julian  selling  clothes,  but  that  I  did 
mind  his  forcing  the  musician  to  accept  his  clothes  by  offering 
him  a  service  of  another  kind.  Then  I  forgot  all  about  it. 
After  all,  business  was  business,  and  Julian  took  my  arm. 
I  laid  my  shoulder  against  his. 

Of  course,  we  went  to  one  of  Satterthwaite's  cinemas,  the 


226  URSULA   TRENT 

big  one  near  the  Haymarket.  At  the  doors  we  had  a  wrangle, 
for  Meerbrook  obstinately  refused  to  let  us  pay,  declaring 
that  he  only  had  to  ring  up  Montmorency  and  we'd  get  in 
free.  The  girl  at  the  pay  box  confirmed  that  Mr.  Satter- 
thwaite  was  upstairs,  in  the  office  of  the  company,  where  he 
spent  eighteen  hours  a  day.  After  a  scrimmage  Julian  pushed 
Meerbrook  away  from  the  box,  paid,  and  went  in.  I  forget 
what  I  saw — sentimental  things,  I  believe,  for  Satterthwaite 
liked  the  gentler  side  of  human  nature.  Also,  I  was  dis- 
tracted by  frequent  bursts  of  conversation  across  me,  who 
sat  between  the  two  men.  After  half  an  hour  I  then  grew 
conscious  of  another  disturbance.  Next  to  Julian  sat  a  fair 
girl  whose  profile  I  could  just  see  in  the  dark.  She  was  with 
another  girl.  I  don't  know  what  made  me  notice  it,  but 
after  a  time  I  observed  that  Julian  laid  his  hand  upon  his 
knee.  Her  hand  also  lay  on  her  knee.  A  little  later  I  ob- 
served that  Julian's  hand  was  no  longer  to  be  seen.  I  called 
myself  a  fool,  for  the  girl's  hand  still  lay  where  it  had  been. 
What  was  I  thinking  of?  Or  was  it  a  premonition?  I  told 
myself  not  to  look,  but  at  last  I  had  to.  I  couldn't  help  it. 
No  hands  were  to  be  seen.  Savagely  I  told  myself:  "Well, 
if  he  is  holding  her  hand,  what  does  it  matter?  Anyhow,  it 
isn't  dignified  to  look."  But  just  as  the  lights  went  up  I 
had  to  look,  of  course!  How  silly  of  me.  Julian  was  con- 
sulting his  watch,  while  the  girl  read  her  program. 

To  this  day  I  don't  know  what  happened  there,  but  I  do 
know  that  for  the  first  time  I  realized  that  Julian  might  be 
unfaithful  to  me,  that  craft  might  lie  under  his  charming 
manner.  My  security  was  shaken.  This  blended  with  the 
disturbance  caused  by  his  finesse  in  the  matter  of  dresses  for 
the  opera.  Somehow  he  seemed  less  a  demigod  and  merely 
an  exquisite  mortal. 

These  things  go  slowly.  I  did  not  think  of  them  when  we 
went  up  to  see  Satterthwaite  after  the  show.  I  had  never 
spoken  to  him  before,  and  did  not  like  this  short,  extremely 
stout,  heavy,  dark  man,  with  enormous  humid  brown  eyes, 
a  heavy  underlip,  and  a  large  tribal  nose,  set  off  by  a  pro- 
nounced baldness.  He  looked  perfectly  disgusting,  and  so  I 


SUSPICION  227 

was  amazed  to  find  that  he  had  the  softest  and  most  caressing 
voice  I've  ever  heard.  "Oh,  you  are  Little  Bear,  aren't  you? 
Everybody  says  nice  things  about  your  looks,  Mrs.  Quin, 
and  as  a  rule  that  means  disappointment.  I  see  that  some- 
times people  don't  exaggerate." 

I  laughed.  I  couldn't  be  offended  by  his  crudity;  the 
man  was  fifty,  and  when  he  smiled  his  features  were  sweet  and 
paternal.  Meerbrook  made  a  fool  of  himself  after  a  moment, 
and  asked  Satterthwaite  whether  he  wouldn't  like  to  mount 
a  light  opera  as  a  change  from  cinemas.  The  manager  shook 
his  bald  head  and  replied: 

"No,  Mr.  Meerbrook.  When  your  light  opera  comes  on, 
I  promise  you  I'll  take  twenty-four  stalls  on  the  first  night, 
and  I'll  tell  all  my  friends  in  the  press  to  give  you  a  show, 
but  I  must  stick  to  my  trade.  I  don't  understand  music." 

"Oh,  go  on!"  said  Meerbrook.  "Haven't  I  met  you  three 
times  at  a  concert  in  the  last  month?" 

"Yes,"  said  Satterthwaite,  nodding.  "I  don't  under- 
stand music,  but  I  love  it.  It  makes  me  forget  that  I'm  a  fat 
old  widower,  since  my  Rebecca  died,  and  that  I've  a  quarrel 
with  the  landlord  of  my  big  house  in  Hampstead,  and  that 
my  boy  Reuben  has  got  religion  something  dreadful  and 
wants  to  be  a  rabbi,  which  doesn't  pay." 

We  had  to  smile,  but  his  simplicity  was  infinitely  winning; 
he  convulsed  me  by  describing  the  difficulty  he  had  had  in 
finding  a  house  that  was  large  enough  to  accommodate  what 
he  called  his  "booffay." 

"I  wouldn't  sell  that,"  he  said,  "for  any  money.  My  poor 
Rebecca  always  arranged  the  fruit  on  it.  Couldn't  get  it 
in  at  the  door.  Couldn't  take  it  to  pieces.  You  should  have 
seen  it  when  the  crane  was  swinging  it  up  from  the  garden  to 
get  it  through  the  window.  You  know,"  he  added,  seri- 
ously, "a  booffay  that  is  nine  feet  long  does  not  look  dignified 
when  it's  swinging." 

We  laughed  at  him,  but  he  was  charming,  and  when  at 
last  he  decided  to  leave  his  beloved  office  to  take  us  out  to 
supper,  he  entertained  us  for  an  hour  by  telling  us  the  story 
of  his  life,  from  the  day  when  he  was  a  page  boy  at  "Wonder- 


228  URSULA   TRENT 

land,"  in  Whitechapel,  to  his  tenance  of  "The  Peep  Show" 
in  Tottenham  Court  Road,  and  now  to  his  glory  as  a  promi- 
nent member  of  the  Cinema  Exhibitors'  Association.  We 
heard  about  Rebecca,  too.  She  had  been  a  character,  it 
seemed.  When  she  married  she  refused  to  shave  her  head 
and  wear  a  scheitel.  "I  should  catch  a  cold  if  there  was  a 
fire,  Montmorency,"  she  used  to  say,  "if  I  had  to  go  out  at 
night  and  my  scheitel  was  lost."  He  spoke  of  his  children, 
not  only  of  Reuben,  the  regrettable  candidate  for  rabbihood, 
but  about  Esther,  who'd  acquired  bad  habits  as  a  suffra- 
gette and  was  now  a  socialist,  and  about  Leopold,  who  was 
making  lots  of  money  in  Chicago  as  a  designer  of  wrappers 
for  canned  pork.  He  was  ashamed  of  nothing,  told  us  every- 
thing; the  only  subject  he  let  alone  was  his  conversion  from 
Moses  into  Montmorency. 


IV 

Was  it  this  agitation,  I  wonder,  caused  me,  when  I  got 
home,  to  receive  amicably  an  invitation  from  Sir  Charles 
Baldwin  to  lunch  with  him  at  the  Carlton?  After  all,  it  was 
the  Carlton;  it  was  not  his  flat.  WTiy  not?  I  did  not  go  to 
sleep  at  once,  and  for  some  time  considered  the  Baldwin 
proposal.  It  would  not  compromise  me  much,  but  three 
months  before,  in  the  first  flush  of  coming  together  with 
Julian,  I  should  have  laughed  at  the  old  man.  I  was  dis- 
turbed; the  suspicion  that  Julian  had  held  that  girl's  hand 
in  the  cinema  worried  me;  though  I  liked  Satterthwaite,  he 
certainly  was  vulgar,  and  I  resented  being  led  by  Julian  into 
such  society.  I  brooded  for  some  time  over  these  two 
grievances,  turning  over  and  over  and  feeling  very  hot. 
Then  Julian's  management  of  Meerbrook  increased  my  irri- 
tation. He  was  mean,  in  a  way.  Then  I  called  myself  dis- 
loyal and  silly.  Then  I  felt  remorseful,  but  at  once  changed 
my  mind  and  told  myself,  "I  will  lunch  with  Sir  Charles." 
Then  I  went  to  sleep  at  once,  for  my  preoccupation  had  been 
allayed  by  a  decisive  act. 

It  wasn't  so  bad,  lunching  with  Sir  Charles.    He  did  talk 


SUSPICION  229 

a  lot  about  himself  and  his  wealth,  and  he  bragged.  He 
told  me  at  lunch  how  he'd  bought  a  car  recently. 

"I  said  to  the  fellow,  'How  much?'  Course,  he  started 
a  song  and  dance  about  my  having  to  pay  a  premium  for 
early  delivery.  So  I  told  him  to  cut  the  cackle.  Eh,  what ! 
He  said  a  thousand  guineas,  and  I  said,  'Well,  you  know, 
that's  all  very  well  for  the  mugs,  but  let's  have  your  real 
price,  right  out.'  He  came  down  to  seven  hundred  guineas 
at  once.  Course,  he  knew  me.  What  about  a  run  down  to 
Brighton,  you  and  me  ?  Eh,  what  ?  " 

I  repelled  the  run  down  to  Brighton.  I  love  motoring, 
but  I  had  an  idea  that  there  wouldn't  be  quite  enough  room 
in  the  car  for  Sir  Charles,  myself,  and  my  self-respect.  I 
had  quite  enough  trouble  as  it  was,  for  I'd  been  fool  enough 
to  tell  him  that,  after  lunch,  I  wanted  to  go  to  some  glove 
people  at  the  top  of  Bond  Street.  The  car  was  waiting,  so  I 
couldn't  say  I'd  rather  taxi;  as  it  was  raining,  I  couldn't 
say  I  wanted  to  walk.  I  had  to  get  hi.  The  brute  had 
fitted  blinds  to  his  car,  but  I  managed  to  keep  one  of  them 
up.  He  wasn't  really  violent;  at  last  he  contented  himself 
with  holding  my  hand  and  kissing  my  wrist  above  the  glove, 
declaring  that  I  was  throwing  myself  away  and  that  he  was 
ready  to  give  me  a  hell  of  a  good  time. 

It  disturbed  me,  all  this.  The  new  atmosphere,  that  had 
begun  by  being  exciting,  was  becoming  usual.  Fantastic 
figures  were  more  normal  than  they  seemed.  Sadie  col- 
lected stamps;  Arf  a  Mo'  was  a  good  golfer  and  got  on  very 
well  with  stockbrokers  at  Sandy  Lodge.  They  were  more 
normal  than  they  seemed,  and  The  Woman,  I  found,  kept  an 
old  mother  and  an  invalid  sister  at  the  seaside.  All  that 
made  me  like  them  better,  but  they  were  less  impressive, 
and  so  I  had  less  to  keep  my  mind  busy.  Also,  acidity  arose 
with  Julian  over  the  maneuvers  which  I  felt  he  was  engaged 
in  with  regard  to  Meerbrook's  opera.  I  discovered  an 
unexpected  streak  of  hardness  hi  the  beautiful  creature. 

"Get  on  or  get  out,  Ursula,  that's  the  motto."  I  was 
silent.  WTien  he  called  me  Ursula  he  always  liked  me  less 
than  when  he  called  me  Little  Bear. 


230  URSULA   TRENT 

"  It's  no  good  making  a  fuss  about  it.  That's  the  way  the 
•world  goes  round.  Meerbrook's  an  artist  and  no  more; 
I'm  an  artist  and  a  business  man.  That's  going  to  give  me 
a  bit  of  a  majority  over  him.  Well,  the  world  is  governed 
by  majorities,  not  only  in  politics;  it's  either  a  majority  of 
votes,  or  a  majority  of  cash,  or  a  majority  of  brains.  I'm 
going  to  take  my  majority  in  this  world,  and  minorities  must 
suffer.  Besides,  you  talk  as  if  I  was  going  to  do  him  down. 
Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  can  do  some  good  to  Meerbrook,  and  it's 
right  I  should  profit  by  it.  Otherwise  why  should  I  do  him 
good?" 

I  didn't  like  it.  His  voice  was  so  gentle,  his  words  were  so 
harsh.  Like  a  cat,  that  lovely,  soft,  yielding  thing  that  turns 
into  a  bundle  of  steel  wire  when  you  try  to  coerce  it.  My 
social  situation,  too,  worried  me  more,  for,  two  nights  before, 
I  had  met  Uncle  Victor  at  Compton's.  It  gave  me  an  awful 
shock,  though  my  smart  Uncle  Victor  looked  a  little  disar- 
ranged, as  if  he'd  had  a  very  good  dinner.  He  was  dancing 
with  a  frightful  little  girl,  a  manicurist  whom  none  of  us 
would  have  spoken  to.  Fancy  me  talking  to  a  manicurist! 
He  saw  me.  After  a  while  he  got  away  from  the  little  girl 
and  took  me  apart. 

"Well,  Ursula,"  he  said,  "how  do  you  like  life?" 

"It's  all  right." 

"Yes,  you  look  all  right.  Charming  frock.  Charming 
girl.  Wish  I  wasn't  your  uncle.  Suppose  I  couldn't  make  a 
mistake?" 

"Now,  Uncle  Victor,"  I  said,  "I'll  have  to  scold  you,  and 
that  would  be  hardly  respectful,  would  it?" 

He  twinkled.  "No,  I  suppose  not,  though  it  isn't  always 
the  people  who  have  most  right  to  do  so  who  take  on  the  job 
of  censoring.  I  suppose  we're  all  censors  until  we're  found 
out." 

We  talked  seriously,  then;  he  inquired  mainly  after  my 
present  situation.  Was  I  happy?  Did  I  have  everything  I 
wanted?  Was  I  disappointed  with  life?  He  did  not  reprove 
me.  Uncle  Victor  was  beautifully  liberal.  But  he  annoyed 
me,  all  the  same.  When  I  asked  for  news  of  my  father  and 


SUSPICION  231 

mother  he  merely  replied,  "They're  all  right."  And  he 
introduced  me  to  that  horrid  little  girl,  but  wouldn't  come 
over  and  be  introduced  to  Julian.  He  made  me  feel  so  fright- 
fully outcast,  because,  in  spite  of  his  disarranged  tie,  he  was 
still  a  member  of  my  class  plunging  into  dissipation,  while  I 
lived  in  dissipation  and,  as  I  talked  to  him,  strove  to  get  out. 
I  cried  when  I  got  home,  and  would  not  tell  Julian  why  I 
was  unhappy.  Perhaps  I  felt  that  he  had  no  place  in  pre- 
occupations of  which,  in  a  way,  he  was  the  innocent  origin. 
I  owned  something  apart  from  him,  and  that  tended  to  part 
us.  Oh,  dear  Julian !  how  unfair  I  am !  I  am  letting  memo- 
ries of  a  later  time  interfere  with  the  sweet  picture  of  you  as 
you  were  then.  I  was  able  then  to  take  pleasures  as  they 
came,  and  I  can't  bring  those  pleasures  up  again,  overlaid 
as  they  are  by  such  miseries.  What  a  pity!  What  waste! 
Why  can't  we  take  delights  as  they  form  and  embalm  them, 
so  that  we  may  preserve  them  forever  as  a  monument  of  our 
past? 


Chapter  V 
Contradictions 


NINETTE  BENTHAM  had  to  use  Ninette  Douglas  as 
a  stage  name  because  she  had  made  her  way  as  Ninette 
Douglas.  But  she  loved  her  Roderick  so  much  that  she  signed 
herself  Bentham,  which  is  almost  incredible  hi  an  actress. 
One  hears  of  such  things  more  often  than  one  meets  them. 
Like  Mr.  Blackbrook,  she  liked  being  miserable.  (Drama 
again?  Are  we  all  dramatic?)  I  think  she  asked  me  to 
come  and  see  her  play,  and  then  on  to  tea  at  her  flat,  so  that 
I  might  know  that  an  actress  can  laugh  and  dance  while  her 
heart  is  bleeding.  She  wanted  me  to  see  her  with  the  make-up 
off,  and  her  heart,  well  .  .  .  bleeding.  I  oughtn't  to  put  it 
like  that.  I  feel  a  cat,  but  I  couldn't  understand  her.  We 
sat  there,  we  two,  hi  this  pleasant,  idiotically  furnished  little 
flat  near  Bloomsbury  Square.  Though  Ninette  had  red 
hah*  and  green  eyes,  hers  was  the  pale-blue  temperament. 
She  loved  the  works  of  Mrs.  Vernham,  and  I  think  that  the 
discovery  that  I  had  been  secretary  to  the  Great  enhanced 
our  friendship. 

What  a  flat!  Pale-blue  flowered  silk  hi  white  panels  on 
the  walls;  occasional  tables,  without  occasion;  crowds  of 
photographs,  signed  "Tommy,"  "Billy,"  or  "Yours  to  a 
cinder,  illegible."  Lace  curtains,  little  gilt  chairs,  a  carpet 
on  which  clusters  of  roses  were  having  fits.  That  flat  did 
not  look  like  lovely  Ninette  with  her  tragic  green  eyes  and 
her  flaming  head.  It  looked  like  Tootoo's  virtuous  abode, 
somewhere  in  the  suburbs,  I  believe,  with  mamma.  Before 
tea  came  hi  Ninette  was  talking: 


CONTRADICTIONS  233 

"Oh,  Little  Bear,  don't  you  ever  get  married!"  Pause,  to 
enable  me  to  ask  why.  I  say,  "Why?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know!  One  gets  married.  One  thinks  every- 
thing in  the  garden  '11  be  lovely.  But  it  isn't.  Not  always. 
Oh,  Roddy's  a  darling,  but  I  didn't  think  he'd  turn  out  like 
that.  Mind  you,  I'll  say  this  for  Roddy,  he  doesn't  run 
after  other  women."  More  bitterly  she  added,  "I  suppose 
they  wouldn't  stick  him  if  they  had  the  luck  to  get  hold  of 
him." 

I  smiled  at  her  paradox.  How  exactly  it  defined  most  of 
us  with  most  men!  They  are  impossible  and  necessary. 
But  she  went  on. 

"If  only  his  temper  wasn't  so  short.  I  don't  know  why. 
We're  doing  well;  we're  both  playing  just  now.  And  Roddy 
got  an  awfully  good  contract.  Forty  pounds  a  week,  my 
dear,  and  no  kid  about  it.  I'll  show  it  you."  Though  I  pro- 
tested, she  showed  me  Roddy's  contract,  then  her  contract, 
and  vowed  they  weren't  dummies.  Her  theatrical  talk 
amused  me;  she  exposed  to  me  the  practice  of  giving  a  vain 
actor  a  contract  for  forty  pounds  a  week,  together  with  an- 
other which  amends  it  and  is  dated  the  folio  whig  day;  that 
one  grants  him  only  fifteen  pounds,  which  enables  him  to 
exhibit  the  rich  contract  without  expense  to  the  manage- 
ment. But  at  once  she  returned  to  her  grievance,  munching 
muffins  with  perfect  content. 

"I  don't  know  why  he's  like  that.  Just  for  nothing,  be- 
cause I've  forgotten  my  little  bag,  or  something,  he  calls 
me  ...  oh!  I  wouldn't  tell  you  what  he  calls  me — things  a 
man  shouldn't  say.  And  when  he's  rehearsing,  if  the  pro- 
ducer says  anything  he  asks  me  what  I  think  about  it.  Of 
course  I'm  on  his  side,  but  it  never  seems  to  be  enough. 
He  says  I'm  getting  at  him,  like  the  others.  Says  it's  a  con- 
spiracy to  keep  him  down.  Well,  of  course  I  can't  help 
standing  up  for  myself,  and  then  he  knocks  me  about." 

"But  surely,"  I  said,  "it  isn't  really  serious?  I  mean  it's 
only  impatience." 

"Is  it?"  whispered  Ninette,  ghoulishly.  "Why,  only  the 
other  night  .  .  .  Look  here,  I'll  show  you." 


234  URSULA   TRENT 

"Please!"  I  said,  for  I  hated  this  exhibition.  She  over- 
whelmed me. 

I  was  really  horrified.  Everybody  knew  that  Roddy  beat 
his  beautiful  young  wife,  one  didn't  know  why,  but  to  see 
the  marks  was  different.  I  was  still  used  to  knowing  things 
but  not  to  seeing  them.  And  Ninette  would  go  on,  would 
horribly  persist  in  telling  me  that  he'd  beaten  her  with  a 
stick,  that  now  and  then  he  struck  her  suddenly,  when  they 
weren't  quarreling,  as  if  he  enjoyed  it. 

"But,  good  heavens!"  I  said,  at  last,  "why  do  you  stay 
with  him?  You  keep  yourself;  you  make  as  much  as  he 
does,  and  they're  talking  of  you  as  the  coming  leading  lady. 
I  wouldn't  stay  with  a  man  like  that  a  week." 

"He's  rather  a  dear,"  murmured  Ninette. 

She  sickened  me.  I  guessed  that  she  liked  Roddy's  bru- 
tality. Still  I  maintained  my  point.  "I  should  leave  him." 

"Oh,  well,  we're  married!" 

"I  know,  but  all  the  same  you  didn't  pledge  yourself  to 
him  for  better, for  sorer,  did  you?" 

She  laughed.  "You  do  say  things,"  she  remarked,  com- 
fortably. "Often  I  think  I  will  go.  I  think  I'll  go 
now."  Her  anger  increased.  "I  won't  stand  it!  I  won't! 
I  won't!  Look  here,  you  help  me  to  pack.  I'll  show 
him." 

I  thought  this  ridiculous,  but  as  soon  as  we  went  to  the 
bedroom  and  dragged  out  her  clothes  the  bell  rang.  It  was 
Walter  Slindon. 

"Oh  dear,"  said  Ninette,  "here's  Wally  again.  Well,  I 
suppose  we  must  give  him  tea."  We  left  the  bedroom. 
Walter  Slindon  had  tea  with  us.  A  few  minutes  later  Tootoo 
came  in  after  the  matinee.  She  and  Ninette  hated  each 
other  so  completely  that  they  went  about  a  good  deal 
together,  each  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  other's  progress.  New 
tea  was  brought  hi,  with  many  cakes,  for  Ninette  loved  sweet 
things,  especially  cakes  with  pink  icing.  At  once  gossip 
began.  Christine  was  still  keeping  off  Mr.  Pawlett;  one 
wondered  why.  Christine  wasn't  exactly  a  debutante,  and 
he  could  do  her  a  lot  of  good. 


CONTRADICTIONS  235 

"Holding  out  for  something,"  said  Ninette. 

"She  won't  get  it,"  said  Tootoo.  "She's  got  nothing  to 
give." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  for  everybody  knew  that 
in  that  sense  Tootoo  was  economical.  So,  awkwardly, 
Slindon  said: 

"Well,  how's  Appleford?" 

"He's  very  well,  thank  you,"  said  Tootoo. 

"When's  the  wedding?"  asked  Ninette. 

"I  haven't  made  up  my  mind,"  said  Tootoo.  Her  small 
pink  features,  the  features  of  a  child,  looked  rather  hard,  I 
thought. 

As  we  did  not  reply,  she  went  on:  "You're  extraordinary, 
all  you  people.  You  all  think  that  girls  are  thinking  of 
nothing  but  getting  married." 

"What  else  is  there  to  do?"  said  Ninette. 

"I've  given  myself  to  my  career,"  said  Tootoo,  solemnly. 

"That's  all  right,"  said  Ninette,  "only  you've  got  to  catch 
that  career  before  you  lose  your  face." 

"What's  the  matter  with  my  face?"  flamed  Tootoo.  She 
was  so  angry  that  she  added,  "Nobody  spoils  it  for  me." 

"How  dare  you!"  cried  Ninette,  jumping  up,  her  voice 
full  of  tears.  She  appealed  to  us.  "What  have  I  done  to 
have  things  like  this  said  to  me  in  my  own  house?  Just  be- 
cause I'm  unhappy,  and  everybody  knows  it,  and  everybody 
discusses  my  affairs,  she  thinks  she  can  insult  me,  trample  on 
me!  Oh,  I'm  so  unhappy!" 

Tootoo  looked  ashamed.  Then  I  realized  a  new  Walter 
Slindon.  Leaning  forward,  he  took  Ninette's  hands,  drew 
her  head  down  upon  his  shoulder,  and  there  let  her  cry,  only 
from  time  to  time  murmuring,  "There,  don't  cry."  Or, 
"Don't  cry,  my  pretty."  I  nearly  cried  myself  then.  It 
was  touching  to  see  this  awkward,  middle-aged  man  com- 
forting the  foolish,  charming  woman.  He  was  beautifully 
careless  of  Tootoo  and  me.  Another  would  have  been  self- 
conscious.  Suddenly  Ninette  stopped  crying,  and  at  once 
Tootoo  kissed  her. 

"  I'm  a  beast,"  she  said.    "  I  do  say  things."   Rather  subtly 
16 


236  URSULA   TRENT 

she  added,  "Only  I'm  so  beastly  jealous  of  you  because  you're 
beautiful  and  I'm  only  pretty." 

"Oh,  rot!"  said  Ninette,  immediately  soothed,  and  pow- 
dering her  nose  hard.  "  Have  an  Eclair?  Seen  Sadie  lately?  " 

We  discussed  Sadie,  who  was  now  going  round  telling  her 
miseries  to  everybody.  This  led  once  more  to  Ninette's 
miseries,  once  more  to  the  description  of  her  husband's  bru- 
tality. But  for  Slindon,  she  would  have  shown  her  bruises 
again. 

"Don't  you  think  I  ought  to  leave  him?"  she  said  to  all 
of  us,  having  evidently  forgotten  that  she  was  going  to  pack. 

"You  never  ought  to  have  married  him,"  said  Tootoo, 
coldly.  "He  wasn't  doing  well  enough.  You  can't  believe 
what  men  say  to  you,  Ninette.  Mr.  Appleford,  for  instance. 
It's  all  very  well  his  being  the  son  of  a  peer,  but  it's  an  Irish 
peer,  and  I've  got  a  friend  in  the  civil  service  that's  looking 
out  how  much  the  family  got  for  their  land  when  they  sold 
it  under  that  Irish  Act.  You  know  what  I  mean?" 

We  none  of  us  knew  what  Tootoo  meant;  we  weren't  so 
technical,  but  we  did  know  that  she  would  do  good  business. 
I  repeated  that  Ninette  ought  to  leave  her  husband,  and 
Tootoo  backed  me  up.  Only  Walter  Slindon  was  against  us. 

"Oh,  it's  all  very  well  leaving  a  man,  Ninette,  but  if  you 
do  you  leave  all  your  dreams  behind." 

"More  like  nightmares,"  said  Ninette. 

"Well,  it  starts  with  dreams,  all  the  things  you  hoped  to 
find  in  each  other,  all  the  early  lovemaking,  and  all  the  folly. 
While  you're  together  you've  still  got  that;  you  can  find 
those  memories  any  time  in  the  ashes  of  the  dead  happiness. 
But  if  you  leave  him  you've  got  to  start  again,  with  some  one 
else,  or  be  alone.  And  it's  hell  to  be  alone,  and  so  you  go  to 
somebody  else;  you  go  there  older,  a  bit  worn,  a  bit  cynical. 
You  can't  collect  a  new  lot  of  dreams,  and,  you  see,  people 
can  only  live  by  dreams.  Reality's  too  hard.  So  stick  to 
him,  Ninette,  unless  it  gets  too  bad.  You  can  stick  it,  can't 
you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Ninette,  tearfully,  "but  I  don't  want  to." 

Slindon  jumped  up  and  agitatedly  walked  to  the  window. 


CONTRADICTIONS  287 

"Good  heavens!"  he  said.  "Do  you  think  I  want  you  to 
stay  with  him  when  .  .  .  Oh,  damn!  Here,  Little  Bear,  you 
going  my  way?" 

I  followed  him.  We  walked  together  down  Shaltesbury 
Avenue  and  on  to  Green  Park.  His  outburst  had  upset  me, 
for  it  had  revealed  to  me  what  was  reported,  that  Walter 
Slindon  was  in  love  with  Ninette,  that  he  had  wanted  to 
marry  her  before  Roderick  Bentham  came  along  with  his 
beautiful,  cruel  face.  The  revue  writer  had  a  sweet,  rather 
sentimental  temperament,  and  he  could  not  bear  to  think 
that  his  adored  Ninette  should  be  soiled  in  the  divorce  court, 
even  for  his  sake. 

"You  may  think  it  queer,"  he  said  to  me,  giving  a  little  of 
his  confidence,  "but  I  can't  help  thinking  a  woman  had 
better  suffer  rather  than  go  down  into  the  gutter." 

I  knew  what  he  meant.  I  liked  him,  and  I  was  sorry  for 
him.  We  talked  for  a  long  time  of  other  things,  of  people  we 
knew,  notably  of  Lord  Alfred  Lydbrook.  Lord  Alfred  really 
was  a  brick. 

"He's  one  of  the  best,"  said  Slindon.  "People  don't 
know  what  he  does.  For  instance,  that  business  of  Frills." 

"Oh,  I  know  all  about  Frills,"  I  said.  "Lord  Alfred  lends 
her  his  car." 

"Yes.  And  doesn't  she  need  it!  The  poor  little  thing 
doesn't  get  much  for  her  fashion  notes,  and  she's  got  to 
dress  and  go  about  a  lot  to  keep  a  sick  husband  and  four 
children.  Lord  Alfred  doesn't  offer  her  money;  a  thing  like 
that  would  stick  in  her  gullet.  I  know;  she's  that  sort.  He 
lends  her  a  car,  lets  her  earn  her  own  living.  Though,  mind 
you,  he's  free  with  his  money,  too.  You  know  about  Frills, 
but  I  bet  you  don't  know  about  Madame  de  Louviers's  old 
mother." 

"No." 

"Well,  the  beauty  shop  doesn't  pay  very  well,  and  ma- 
dame's  old  mother's  got  to  be  kept  somewhere.  So  Lord 
Alfred's  found  a  cottage  he  didn't  want  in  a  corner  of  his 
estate." 

We  talked  a  little  more  of  Ninette,  and  Slindon,  though  he 


238  URSULA   TRENT 

would  not  confide  entirely,  exhibited  to  me  an  agonized 
spirit.  He  couldn't  bear  to  see  his  beloved  tortured  by  an- 
other man;  yet  he  could  not  have  borne  so  to  see  her  happy; 
again,  he  could  not  bear  to  take  her  away  from  her  wretched- 
ness, to  make  of  her  a  woman  like  her  own  friends,  like  me. 
He  didn't  mean  that  exactly,  but  he  wanted  her  as  she  was, 
alabaster  pure,  and  he  could  attain  her  only  through  what  he 
considered  secretly  to  be  impurity.  So  he  could  only  love 
her,  cheer  her,  and  maintain  her  misery,  so  that  she  might 
remain  his  dream.  He  was  very  lovable,  this  man,  like  Lord 
Alfred,  in  another  way.  Strange  world  I  lived  in;  my  ac- 
quaintances knew  no  scruple,  laxity  only  and  not  law;  here 
and  there  people  like  Slindon  and  Lord  Alfred,  flowers  in  the 
swamp,  contrasts,  contradictions  in  my  strange  world.  Yet 
I  suppose  it  was  like  any  other  world. 


I  had  ignored  a  letter  that  came  from  Isabel  a  week  before 
Christmas,  in  which  she  hoped  that  I  wouldn't  be  silly  and 
that  she'd  see  me  at  Giber  Court.  I  didn't  go,  setting  up  as 
a  pretext  that  my  parents  hadn't  asked  me.  Could  I  have 
gone?  Yes.  I  could  have  gone  with  my  new  frocks,  with 
my  new  ways,  and  the  poor  dears  would  probably  have 
thought  that  I  bought  those  frocks  out  of  the  wages  of  a 
manicurist,  for  mamma  still  thought  in  pre-Boer  War  prices, 
while  papa  never  got  farther  than  "something  brown." 
But  I  couldn't  face  it.  I  couldn't  sit  there,  eating  the  plum 
pudding  of  innocence,  and  carrying  a  secret  which,  if  re- 
vealed, would  have  caused  me  to  be  turned  out  or  rescued. 
I'd  have  had  to  tell. 

Now  Isabel  wrote  again.  She  had  called  at  Balcombe 
Street,  where,  it  appeared,  Mrs.  Witham  refused  to  give  my 
address.  "A  maddening  woman,"  wrote  Isabel.  "She  said 
the  same  thing  four  times."  Yes,  that  was  Mrs.  Witham,  all 
right.  But  Mrs.  Witham  forwarded  the  letter.  Isabel  said 
she  was  very  upset.  WTiere  was  I?  What  was  I  doing? 
Why  was  I  hiding?  Didn't  I  realize  I  was  being  cruel  to 


CONTRADICTIONS  239 

my  people?  Couldn't  we  meet  and  talk  it  over?  Say  next 
Thursday  at  six,  if  I  could  get  away  from  work  so  early. 
Better  make  it  six  thirty.  But  Isabel  was  dining  out  early 
that  night,  having  to  go  to  the  theater.  But,  even  so,  it  was 
her  best  day.  The  postscript  compelled  me  to  go.  It  said : 
"Don't  be  silly  and  hide,  unless  you're  out  of  London.  If 
you're  here  we're  bound  to  meet  in  the  street  one  of  these 
days." 

Isabel  was  right.  It  couldn't  be  dodged.  Besides,  I  rather 
wanted  to  see  Isabel  again,  to  talk  to  some  one  I'd  known. 
It  would  link  me  up  again,  and  I'm  a  rotten  sentimentalist. 
So  I  went.  Isabel  made  me  wait  two  minutes,  and  came 
down  dressed  for  dinner.  She  looked  perfectly  lovely,  in  a 
flame-colored  evening  frock.  The  new  kind,  the  right  kind, 
cut  very  low  at  the  back  and  very  high  in  front.  But  the 
outcast  was  maliciously  glad  to  see  that  her  stockings  didn't 
quite  match.  That  was  Isabel  all  over — always  that  little 
wrong,  and  what  a  difference  it  makes. 

"Well,  Ursula,"  she  said,  as  she  kissed  me,  "and  how's  the 
manicuring?" 

" Oh,"  I  said,  awkwardly,  " all  right."  I  sat  down  to  think, 
while  Isabel  disposed  herself  on  the  couch.  I  couldn't  keep 
this  up,  so  went  on,  "I'm  not  in  a  manicure  shop  now." 

"Oh?  What  are  you  doing?"  She  nodded  toward  my 
patent-leather  shoes.  "You  look  very  rich." 

I  feinted,  "Are  they  all  well  at  Ciber  Court?" 

"Well,  hardly,"  said  Isabel.  "Mamma's  not  very  well, 
really.  She  has  what  she'd  like  to  call  megrims,  except  that 
it  isn't  done.  I'm  afraid  there's  something  wrong  with  her. 
Her  heart's  not  very  strong." 

"And  papa?" 

"Oh,  papa's  all  right.  Hunts  a  lot,  as  usual.  Of  course, 
they're  rather  lonely  since  you  left.  Why  didn't  you  come 
down  for  Christmas,  you  little  beast?" 

"I  couldn't." 

"How  do  you  mean,  couldn't?  Don't  they  give  you  three 
or  four  days'  holiday  at  the  place  where  you're  working? 
By  the  way,  where  are  you  working?" 


240  URSULA   TRENT 

I  hesitated.  It  must  come  out.  For  a  moment  I  planned 
complicated  explanations,  phrases  that  were  dignified, 
decided  to  be  guarded  and  tactful.  Then  I  blurted,  "I'm 
living  with  a  man." 

Isabel  slowly  sat  up  on  the  couch,  staring  at  me.  Then, 
in  a  meditative  tone,  she  said,  "Well!  I'm  damned!" 

"Bel!"  I  said.  I  was  really  shocked.  The  words  of  Vera 
Westley  when  I  told  her  I  was  straight !  Isabel  and  Vera  . . . 
are  all  women  the  same  when  they're  surprised?  She  did  not 
notice. 

"Living  with  a  man?  Ursula?"  she  said.  "Really  .  .  . 
are  you  having  me  on?" 

"No.    Why  should  I?" 

"But  why  have  you  done  it?  I  thought  you  were  a  fool 
to  work,  but  I  didn't  know  you  were  as  big  a  fool  as  that." 

"Oh,  it's  all  very  well  your  talking,  but  you  haven't  got 
to  stay  at  home  and  you  haven't  got  to  work.  You  don't 
know  what  it's  like.  It's  all  very  well  preaching  to  me, 
but . . ." 

"Now,  don't  get  shirty.  You  know  I  don't  pretend  to  be 
a  saint,  but  I  do  believe  in  keeping  up  a  halo." 

I  laughed.    She  was  perfectly  serious. 

"Living  with  a  man!"  she  repeated.  "But  why  doesn't 
he  marry  you?  With  looks  like  yours  you  ought  to  have 
brought  it  off." 

"Brought  it  off!"  I  snarled,  insulted  by  the  suggestion 
that  I'd  failed  to  make  a  man  marry  me.  "I  wish  you 
wouldn't  talk  without  knowing.  He  can't  marry  me.  He's 
married  already." 

"Let  him  get  a  divorce." 

"His  wife  won't  divorce  him." 

"He  must  make  her.  It's  no  good  being  sentimental. 
He  can  make  her  divorce  him,  all  right,  if  he  starves  her 
out." 

"She'd  like  starving;  she's  a  Catholic." 

"Oh,  my  dear  Ursula,"  murmured  Isabel,  accepting  this 
fact,  "what  a  mess  you've  made!  Tell  me  about  him." 
After  I'd  done  she  said,  "Yes,  sounds  all  right.  I'm  sure 


CONTRADICTIONS  241 

he's'perfectly  charming.  He'd  have  to  be  charming  to  make 
you  go  off  the  rails."  I  thought  of  Philip,  but  said  nothing. 
"What's  it  all  leading  you  to?  How  long  do  you  think  this 
will  go  on?  Men  don't  stick  to  women  when  they've  lost 
their  looks;  then  it's  women  do  the  sticking." 

"Do  you  really  think  that?"  I  said.  "Do  you  think  that 
if  Gervers  could  he'd  leave  you  for  somebody  else  when  you 
lose  your  looks?" 

She  smiled.  "Oh  no!  Gervers  is  a  sentimentalist;  he'd 
never  leave  me.  Only,  he'd  get  led  astray,  and  in  the  end  the 
result  would  be  the  same.  I  wish  I  could  make  you  under- 
stand that  men  need  chaining  up." 

I  sighed.  "  I  expect  you're  right,  Bel,  but  I'll  never  learn 
your  lesson.  I'm  'soppy,'  as  they  say  in  my  new  world." 

"  Your  new  world?  I  say,"  she  added,  in  a  frightened  tone, 
"this  man  of  yours,  he's  all  right,  isn't  he?" 

"How  do  you  mean,  all  right?" 

"Oh  dear,"  she  replied,  impatiently,  "don't  get  shirty. 
What  is  the  use  of  it?  You're  in  a  horrible  mess,  compro- 
mised. When  you  want  to  get  married,  it  '11  leak  out  .  .  . 
unless  you  leave  him  now.  Better  go  abroad  for  a  year  and 
study  painting  in  Florence,  or  something."  She  took  my 
hand:  "Do  let  me  look  after  you,  Ursula.  I've  got  plenty  of 
money." 

She  was  very  nice.  I  had  to  kiss  her  and  thank  her.  I 
respected  her  cynicism.  One  must  respect  anything  that  is 
perfectly  successful,  yet  maintains  an  exterior  amiable  and 
urbane.  But  I  wouldn't  be  taken  care  of,  and  I  wouldn't 
leave  Julian.  Isabel  tried  to  move  me  in  other  ways.  "It's 
awfully  hard  on  mamma,"  she  said.  "What  do  you  think's 
going  to  happen  if  she  finds  out?  " 

"She  won't  find  out.  Mamma  doesn't.  And  nobody 
would  dare  to  tell  papa." 

"Mamma  isn't  very  well,  you  know  that.  And  they're 
both  of  them  lonely,  now  they're  getting  old." 

"Have  you  thought  of  going  to  live  with  them,  Bel?" 

"I  can't.    I've  got  to  look  after  Gervers." 

"That's  that.    But  if  I  were  a  boy,  would  you  suggest 


242  URSULA   TRENT 

that  I  must  give  up  my  career  and  live  at  home  because  my 
parents  are  old  or  ill?" 

"Your  career!"  said  Isabel,  bitterly.  "Mrs.  Warren's 
Profession!" 

We  had  a  quarrel  then,  but  in  the  end  I  melted,  and  Isabel 
cried.  I  think  she  admired  me  a  little  for  being  an  adven- 
turess, and  so  she  was  a  little  nervous.  I  had  done  something 
so  dashing,  outdone  the  furtive  affairs  I  suspected  in  her  life. 
"Well,"  she  summed  up,  "mind  you  come  to  me  first  when 
the  smash  comes." 

Talk  of  speeding  the  parting  guest  1 


Chapter  VI 
Awakening 


I  COULDN'T  get  rid  of  Sir  Charles  Baldwin.  Now  and 
then  I  wondered  whether  I  wanted  to.  The  awful  words 
of  Isabel  stuck  in  my  head.  She  so  confidently  expected  a 
smash.  Very  likely  my  relation  wouldn't  last  forever.  I 
think  that  in  that  moment  I  ceased  to  love  Julian,  without 
his  having  done  any  wrong,  merely  by  being  able  to  conceive 
that  he  might  no  longer  love  me.  When  a  woman  says, 
"You  don't  love  me,"  she  means,  "I  don't  love  you."  Love 
is  little  more  than  echo. 

Sir  Charles  took  me  out  to  lunch  once  or  twice  In  March; 
once  we  went  to  a  matinee.  I  punctiliously  told  Julian  every 
time;  it  didn't  seem  fair  not  to.  He  didn't  mind.  "After 
all,  you  must  lunch  somewhere.  Only  don't  you  go  and  fall 
in  love  with  old  Baldy." 

"Don't  you  want  me  to?"  I  replied,  archly. 

"Not  if  you  can  help  it." 

He  irritated  me;  he  ought  to  have  made  a  fuss.  Also  he 
took  the  edge  off  my  companionship  with  Sir  Charles.  I 
didn't  want  to  make  Julian  jealous;  I  wasn't  so  silly;  but  I 
wanted  him  to  be  jealous.  Call  me  unreasonable  if  you  like, 
but  that's  me.  I  think,  however,  that  I  could  have  made 
Julian  jealous  if  I  had  described  the  way  in  which  Sir  Charles 
behaved.  I  saw  no  reason  to  report  this.  I  told  Julian  I 
was  going  with  him.  That  cleared  my  conscience.  Why 
should  I  tell  him  more?  If  he  chose  to  misunderstand  Sir 
Charles,  that  wasn't  my  fault.  Indeed,  Sir  Charles  was 
rather  embarrassing.  He  couldn't  pass  the  toast  rack  with- 
out shaking  hands.  I  wonder  why  I  let  him?  I  didn't  like 


244  URSULA   TRENT 

him.  Perhaps  he  was  monumental;  he  was  the  profiteer 
triumphant,  and  the  profiteer  of  that  period  had  a  Jugger- 
naut touch  that  was  impressive.  I  liked  to  hear  him  talk  of 
the  rivals  he'd  smashed,  the  government  officials  he'd  cor- 
rupted. His  super-Rolls-Royce  crushed  bodies  every  day, 
and  they  all  bled  gold. 

I  let  him  kiss  me  once.  It  seemed  the  only  way  to  prevent 
him  trying.  He  was  massive  and  futile;  he  didn't  matter  to 
me.  I  lunched  with  him  as  I  would  have  lunched  with  any- 
body who  asked  me,  and  was  not  too  repulsive;  when  one 
has  nothing  to  do  one  must  lunch  with  somebody.  So  hu- 
miliating to  sit  in  a  restaurant  alone,  when  most  of  the 
others  are  coupled.  I  made  no  plans.  Mainly,  I  regarded 
him  as  a  man  who  gave  seats  at  the  theater,  flowers,  crystal- 
lized fruits;  a  woman  must  have  that  sort  of  man.  What 
are  we  to  do?  We  most  of  us  have  many  desires  and  little 
money.  If  we  owned  the  money  of  the  world,  and  the 
men  didn't,  then  we  could  afford  the  male  virtues  of 
dignity,  independence,  generosity,  and  perhaps  even  truth. 
Virtues  are  the  greatest  luxuries,  but  so  far  as  I  can  see  a 
man  has  to  get  jolly  rich  before  he  thinks  of  acquiring 
them. 

Still,  the  absurd  Sir  Charles  was  to  influence  my  relation. 
One  day  hi  April  he  appointed  to  pick  me  up  at  the  flat 
and  take  me  to  Hyde  Park  Corner  for  a  walk  in  the  Park. 
He  wanted  to  see  the  tulips;  at  least,  so  he  said.  We  walked 
from  the  Achilles  statue  across  to  Victoria  Gate,  after  he 
had  made  a  vain  effort  to  take  me  up  Church  Parade  and 
later  through  the  Flower  Walk.  I  wouldn't.  One  didn't 
know  whom  one  might  not  meet  hi  those  respectable  areas; 
but  he  didn't  care,  and,  indeed,  he  forgot  all  about  the  tulips. 
He  employed  the  hour  before  lunch  in  formulating  a  declara- 
tion of  love,  which  showed  that  he  chose  his  moment  for 
business  better  than  for  his  amours.  He  started  well,  but  I 
began  to  want  my  lunch;  if  I  could  have  been  rude  to  this 
pirate  K.B.E.,  it  would  have  been  then. 

"I  never  felt  to  a  girl  like  I  do  to  you.  There's  something 
about  the  way  you  hold  your  head,  you  know,  that  one 


AWAKENING  245 

doesn't  come  across  every  day.  First  time  I  saw  you  I  said 
to  myself:  'That's  a  high-stepper/  and,  mind  you,  I  know 
a  bit  about  high-steppers.  I've  learned  a  bit  since  I  came  to 
town.  You  London  girls,  you're  real  girls,  not  like  the 
Manchester  drabs  that  don't  deserve  to  be  females."  He 
went  on  for  a  long  time.  It  seemed  that  I  drove  him  dis- 
tracted, that  he  dreamed  of  me.  He  grew  sentimental. 
"Sometimes  when  I  send  you  bouquets  from  the  florist, 
I've  wondered  whether  it  wouldn't  be  better  if  I  went  out 
into  the  country  (run  down  in  an  hour  in  the  car,  you  know) 
and  get  you  a  bunch  of  buttercups  and  poppies.  Simple 
flowers  of  the  field,  you  know.  Eh,  what!" 

I  couldn't  help  laughing.  The  profiteer  couldn't  even 
spare  the  buttercups.  My  laughter  must  have  encouraged 
him,  for  he  added: 

"Look  here.  Let's  get  down  to  brass  tacks,  as  the  Yankees 
say.  I  know  your  Johnnie,  a  nice  boy  and  all  that.  Eh, what! 
Still,  he  can't  marry  you." 

"But .  . ." 

"Oh,  I  know  all  about  it.  You  don't  keep  things  from 
Charlie  B.'s  intelligence  department.  Quin's  got  a  wife 
stowed  away.  Didn't  he  tell  you?" 

"Of  course  he  did." 

"I  didn't  suppose  he'd  do  the  dirty  on  you.  But  you  got 
to  face  facts  in  this  world.  He  can't  make  your  pile  for  you, 
and  I  can." 

I  did  not  reply.  I  vaguely  wanted  to  know  what  he  would 
propose. 

"Mind  you,  I  don't  say  I'm  Rockefeller,  but  I've  been 
scooping  it  a  bit  lately.  I  could  do  you  some  good.  Want 
to  go  on  the  stage?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Well,  you  only  got  to  say  it.  I'll  give  you  three  months' 
training  under  any  manager  you  like.  Get  you  a  theater; 
any  damn  theater  you  like.  And  put  up  fifty  thousand  quid 
to  start  you  in  management." 

I  did  not  reply. 

"That's  better  than  setting  you  up  in  a  flat  the  other  side 


246  URSULA   TRENT 

of  the  river,  which  is  what  I  suppose  you  thought  I  was  play- 
ing up  to?  What  I  Well,  what  about  it?  " 

"Oh,  I  couldn't,"  I  murmured.  The  offer  was  so  sumptu- 
ous that  for  a  moment  love  was  silent. 

"How  do  you  mean,  couldn't?  Don't  you  get  me?  Start 
you  on  an  allowance,  say  a  couple  of  thousand  a  year,  and 
give  you  a  good  time.  When  you're  ready  you'll  have  your 
own  theater,  and  you  leave  the  press  to  Charlie  B.  Eh, 
what?" 

It  was  terribly  tempting.  What  had  Isabel  said?  How 
long  would  my  looks  last?  My  own  theater !  My  picture  in 
the  Taller!  Frocks  from  the  Maison  Dromina  .  .  .  the  only 
thing  Julian  couldn't  give  me.  But  Julian!  No,  I  couldn't 
do  it.  And  now  this  man  was  holding  my  arm  above  the 
elbow.  I  hated  him,  then,  his  blunt  features,  his  wealth, 
the  manners  he  had  just  purchased.  Apart  from  Julian,  I 
couldn't  have  said  "yes."  I  can't  sell  myself.  I'm  no  good 
at  it.  I  refused.  He  took  it  marvelously  well.  "Well, 
we'll  let  it  alone  now.  Eh,  what?  We'll  have  another  talk 
by  and  by.  Now  let's  go  and  have  lunch." 

We  went  to  the  Carlton.  I  was  vaguely  uncomfortable, 
though  he  did  not  touch  me  in  the  car.  This  way  of  accepting 
defeat  and  alluding  to  another  struggle  worried  me.  Per- 
haps that  was  how  Sir  Charles  had  got  what  he  wanted. 
That  was  terrifying.  Still,  lunch  was  very  nice;  the  band 
was  banding  hard;  all  the  pretty  people  were  lunching  with 
the  rich  ones.  Arf  a  Mo'  and  Meerbrook  had  a  party,  obvi- 
ously capitalists,  judging  by  their  collars  and  ties.  I  recog- 
nized a  popular  actress;  farther  on  a  decrepit  but  distin- 
guished peer.  But  just  as  I  was  raising  to  my  lips  a  fragment 
of  sole,  I  saw,  half  a  dozen  tables  away,  Christine  Waldron. 
I  smiled  at  her,  and  after  a  second  she  answered,  but  with  a 
little  flicker  of  discomfort  in  her  expression.  I  dodged  from 
right  to  left  to  look  past  the  tables  that  intervened;  I  wanted 
to  see  who  she  was  with.  Then  I  dropped  my  fork.  The 
head  of  her  companion  showed  thick  waves  of  molded  golden 
hair.  Julian! 

I  don't  know  how  I  got  through  that  lunch,  except  that 


AWAKENING  247 

Sir  Charles  helped  me  by  relating  at  length  how  one  made 
plush.  He  was  the  sort  of  man  who  entertains  women  with 
that  sort  of  thing.  In  the  middle,  Christine  must  have  told 
Julian  that  we  were  there,  for  he  turned  and  waved  his 
hand  at  me.  Sir  Charles  turned  and  acknowledged  the 
greeting.  "We'd  better  join  them  for  coffee,"  he  remarked. 

"All  right,"  I  said.  My  mind  was  in  a  whirl.  I  had  told 
Julian  that  I  was  lunching  with  Sir  Charles,  but  he  hadn't 
told  me  he  was  lunching  with  Christine.  He  was  hiding! 
I  was  unjust  enough  to  think  that  ...  of  a  man  who  was 
"hiding"  at  the  Carlton.  An  intolerable  sense  of  grievance 
overwhelmed  me.  If  he  had  time  to  lunch  at  the  Carlton, 
why  couldn't  he  take  me?  Didn't  want  to.  Preferred  to 
take  Christine.  Now  I  saw  why  he  was  a  partisan  of  Sadie's 
and  wanted  to  keep  her  with  Pawlett.  On  the  sly  he  was 
dangling  after  Christine  himself.  So  here  was  the  smash. 
That's  how  a  smash  began. 

Sir  Charles  said:  "Look  here,  before  we  join  them,  have 
you  been  thinking  over  what  I  said  this  morning?  Because 
I'm  still  ready  if  you  say  'yes.'"  As  I  did  not  reply,  he 
pressed  his  advantage:  "Come  on.  Better  say  'yes'  while 
you  can.  Eh,  what !  Two  thousand  a  year  till  you're  ready, 
and  then  fifty  thousand  quid  and  your  own  theater.  Don't 
miss  your  market." 

"No,"  I  said.  I  didn't  want  him;  I  didn't  want  Julian. 
I  was  sick  of  all  these  men.  Still,  when  Sir  Charles  got  up 
to  go  to  their  table,  I  followed  him. 

The  same  old  talk  began,  the  endless  talk  which  until  then 
had  seemed  to  me  new.  I  was  dreadfully  apart.  They  asked 
each  other  whether  they  had  seen  "Kissing  Time,"  and  did 
they  think  that  little  fair-haired  puss  in  the  "Kiss  Call" 
could  play  for  nuts.  There  I  sat,  frozen. 

"Say  what  you  like  about  it  being  high  art,"  remarked 
Julian,  "but  you  ought  to  go  to  'The  Young  Visiters.'" 

"What's  Edyth  Goodall  like?"  asked  Sir  Charles. 

"Topping,"  said  Christine. 

This  was  the  first  time  I  had  heard  her  praise  a  woman. 
Perhaps  the  cine  placer  felt  that  Edyth  Goodall  was  a  true 


248  URSULA   TRENT 

actress,  or  at  least  one  who  dwelt  in  a  loftier  realm,  who 
would  never  rival  her  thread  of  a  voice.  The  subject  was  not 
pursued.  No  subjects  were  pursued  in  that  world. 

"Wonder  whether  'Buzz  Buzz'  '11  ever  come  off,"  re- 
marked Christine. 

"Why  should  it?"  replied  Julian.  "With  'Chu  Chin 
Chow'  sixteen  hundred  up?  and  'The  Maid  of  the  Moun- 
tains' four  years,  not  out." 

"We'll  give  'em  something  new  by  and  by,"  said  Sir 
Charles,  looking  sideways  at  me.  "We'll  mop  up  your 
Teddie  Gerards  and  your  Phyllis  Dares." 

"Yes,"  said  Julian,  meditatively,  "we  do  want  something 
new.  We've  got  Lorna  and  Toots  Pounds,  of  course,  fresh 
from  the  halls,  and  a  jolly  little  couple  they  are.  Still,  we 
do  want  something  new."  He  glanced  sideways  at  Christine; 
as  I  was  especially  acute  that  day,  I  connected  that  with  the 
sideways  glance  of  Sir  Charles  at  me.  We  were  rivals,  then, 
Christine  and  I,  stage  rivals. 

But  I  was  not  allowed  to  dwell  on  this  idea,  for,  as  I  have 
said,  in  that  world  one  didn't  dwell  on  ideas. 

"Have  you  seen  Satterthwaite?"  asked  Sir  Charles,  look- 
ing at  Julian. 

"Oh  ...  no,"  said  Julian,  hesitating.  Then,  more  firmly, 
"How's  old  Mo'?" 

Sir  Charles  paused  before  replying.  "He  seems  all 
right." 

"Yes,"  said  Julian.    "Of  course  one  never  knows." 

We  two  women  listened  sharply.  We  didn't  understand, 
and  yet  we  felt  that  there  was  something  to  understand. 

"He's  a  sporting  sort  of  fellah.  What?"  said  Sir  Charles. 
"Of  course  a  man  can  overdo  it  a  bit.  He  wanted  me  to 
put  money  into  his  renting  company,  but  I  said:  'No.'  Not 
for  Charles  B.  He  puts  his  money  into  his  own  business 
where  he  can  get  it  out.  Eh,  what?" 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,  Sir  Charles,"  said  Julian. 

"Still,  I  guess  he'll  raise  it." 

A  few  words  were  said  about  Reuben  Satterthwaite,  who, 
1,  still  wanted  to  be  a  rabbi.  Then  Baldwin  glanced 


AWAKENING  249 

at  Christine  and  said,  slyly,  "Well,  Miss  Waldron,  how's 
Pawlett?" 

"It's  no  business  of  mine  how  Mr.  Pawlett  is,"  said 
Christine,  looking  dignified  because  she  felt  awkward. 

"Sorry,"  said  Sir  Charles.    "Thought  you  knew  him." 

"Course  I  know  him,"  said  Christine.  "Who  doesn't? 
A  man  who  lives  at  stage  doors." 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Sir  Charles  Baldwin,  thoughtfully, 
"it  seems  queer  to  me  that  a  fellah  like  Pawlett  should  be 
hanging  round  Sadie.  What?  She's  a  good-looker  in  her 
way,  yes.  Still,  if  I  was  Pawlett  I'd  like  something  a  bit 
fresher." 

"She's  a  very  nice  woman,"  said  Christine,  "and  I  won't 
have  you  run  her  down." 

"I'm  not  running  her  down,"  said  Sir  Charles,  "but  I 
bet  you  anything  you  like  she'll  show  you  her  marriage  lines 
sooner  than  her  birth  certificate."  The  other  two  laughed, 
and  Julian  said: 

"Yes,  she  is  getting  a  bit  ancient,  isn't  she?  Fortunately 
it  doesn't  matter  on  the  films;  brings  out  the  features.  You 
should  see  Sadie  registering  depression;  she's  made  for  it. 
You  know,  the  corners  of  her  mouth  are  going  down;  those 
folds  near  the  chin  help  a  lot.  Well,  well,  we  must  all  come 
to  it,  mustn't  we?  So  must  you,  Christine,  even  if  you  do 
look  like  next  year's  peach.  Got  to  make  hay  while  the  sun 
shines,  don't  you  think?"  He  paused.  "Of  course,  Sadie's 
brought  it  upon  herself.  Drinks  too  much.  And  she's  got 
the  devil  of  a  temper.  How  Pawlett  has  stuck  to  her  so  long 
I  don't  know.  Especially  as  she  runs  about  with  anybody. 
I  asked  her  to  count  up  her  affairs  once,  and  she  said  she 
hadn't  enough  fingers  and  toes  to  do  it  on.  ...  Also  she  said 
it  wouldn't  be  decent  to  count  up  those  of  the  last  four 
years.  You  see,  she's  been  four  years  with  Pawlett." 

"Anybody  can  see  what  sort  of  woman  she  is,"  replied 
Christine,  abandoning  her  championship. 

"From  the  gutter  to  the  gutter.  Eh,  what?"  said  Sir 
Charles.  "That's  the  story  of  most  women  unless  they  stop 
at  Park  Lane  on  the  way." 


250  URSULA   TRENT 

"If  I  was  Pawlett,"  remarked  Julian,  "I'd  chuck  her  .  .  . 
as  soon  as  I  got  anybody  better." 

At  last  we  got  up  to  go.  Julian  returned  to  Dromina's, 
Christine  went  in  a  taxi,  and  Sir  Charles  offered  to  take  me 
home.  He  tried  to  kiss  me  again  on  the  way,  and  I  would 
have  let  him,  so  disgusted  was  I  with  Julian,  only  I  was  sick 
of  all  men.  I  was  a  little  sorry  for  him,  though,  because  for 
a  moment  he  seemed  sincere. 

"Seems  to  me,  Little  Bear," he  remarked,  rather  bitterly, 
"that  I'm  strong  enough  to  offend  you  and  not  strong  enough 
to  capture  you.  Eh,  what?  " 

What  could  I  do  ?  One  can't  give  oneself  to  all  the  men  who 
want  one.  If  they  cared  one  would  only  make  them  all 
unhappy.  But  I  did  not  think  of  him  long,  for  I  was  horribly 
upset.  Not  only  could  I  not  understand  how  Julian  came  to 
be  lunching  with  Christine  without  telling  me,  but  his  sudden 
disloyalty  to  Sadie  was  intolerable.  Only  two  months  ago, 
in  the  tea  shop,  he  had  sided  with  her,  suggested  means  to 
hold  Pawlett.  Now,  at  the  behest  of  a  small  majority,  he 
was  sneering  at  her,  making  her  plight  worse.  I  cried  a  good 
deal  that  afternoon,  and  I  don't  know  whether  I  felt  that  I'd 
lost  my  man  because  he  was  running  after  Christine,  or  be- 
cause he  was  showing  himself  less  than  I  thought  him.  To 
lose  one's  dream  of  a  man  may  be  worse  than  losing  the  man 
himself. 


I  was  too  proud  to  let  him  see  my  misery.  So  I  powdered 
hard,  but  I  had  not  the  energy  to  talk  much  at  dinner.  I 
think  I  even  talked  of  the  weather.  Of  the  weather!  To 
one's  beloved !  He  stared  at  me  now  and  then,  but  he  was 
dever  enough  not  to  talk  until  the  waiter  brought  coffee. 
Even  then  he  pretended  to  settle  in  an  armchair  with  a  novel; 
we  so  remained,  intolerably  apart  for  some  time.  He  hadn't 
kissed  me  since  morning,  and  a  day  is  so  long  without  kisses. 
But  he  didn't  move.  There  he  lay,  cool  and  beautiful,  turn- 
ing over  the  pages  only  at  such  intervals  as  showed  that  he 
was  not  pretending  to  read,  but  was  actually  doing  so.  He 


,      AWAKENING  251 

blew  rings  of  tobacco  smoke,  and  though  all  my  energy  was 
banded  to  resist,  I  could  not  bear  it;  a  sudden  sob  escaped 
me.  At  once  he  was  by  my  side,  on  his  knees,  holding  the 
hands  which  I  struggled  to  wrest  away. 

" Darling,"  he  murmured, "  what's  the  matter?  What  is  it? 
Don't  cry."  He  tried  to  kiss  me, but  I  held  him  off.  "Darling, 
why?" 

"Don't  touch  me,"  I  said. 

He  must  have  hesitated  between  methods,  for  at  first  I 
felt  his  muscles  taut,  as  if  he  purposed  to  caress  me  by  force. 
Then  he  thought  it  wiser  to  relax,  got  up,  stood  away,  let  me 
wipe  my  eyes. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "what's  all  this  nonsense?" 

"Nonsense!"  I  said,  bitterly.  "Is  it  nonsense  when  I  find 
you  lunching  on  the  sly  with  another  woman?" 

"My  dear  girl  .  .  ." 

"Don't  try  to  be  smooth.  Why  don't  you  own  up?  One 
doesn't  lunch  with  a  girl  as  pretty  as  Christine  without  there 
being  something  in  it.  So  don't  tell  me  that  there  wasn't. 
I  suppose  you'll  tell  me  you  met  her  in  the  Haymarket,  and 
she  suggested  you  should  lunch  together.  She  overruled 
you,  didn't  she?  You  couldn't  say  no.  It  wouldn't  have 
been  polite,  would  it?" 

He  looked  really  sorrowful.  "Don't  talk  like  that,  Little 
Bear;  it's  not  like  you." 

"Is  it  like  you  to  be  unfaithful  to  the  girl  who's  dependent 
on  you?" 

"  Unfaithful ! "  he  repeated,  testily.  "  What  rot  you  talk ! 
I  haven't  been  unfaithful  to  you." 

"Perhaps  not.    But  you  will  be  soon." 

"With  Christine?  Don't  be  a  fool.  If  it  was  to  be  with 
Christine,  it  'd  have  been  long  ago.  Oh,  women!  women! 
what  a  damn  nuisance  you  all  are!  Just  because  we're  men 
and  women  we  can't  meet;  we  can't  talk.  One  might  think 
you'd  caught  me  coming  out  of  a  private  room  at  Cazza- 
rino's." 

I  shrank.  I  don't  know  why  that  hurt  me  so.  Yes,  it 
struck  at  the  beginning  of  the  career  I  couldn't  help  being 


252  URSULA   TRENT 

ashamed  of,  I  don't  know  why.  At  last  I  managed  to 
speak. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?" 

"Why  should  I  tell  you?  I  could  give  you  the  reason  if  I 
liked,  but  why  should  I?  Am  I  not  free  to  lunch  with  an- 
other woman?  Do  I  make  a  fuss  because  you  lunch  with 
Charlie  B.?" 

"I  tell  you." 

"Always?" 

"Julian!    Do  you  doubt  me?" 

"Well  .  .  .  you're  doubting  me,  all  right." 

This  bewildering  bit  of  logic  was  enough  to  knock  out  my 
arguments.  WTien  men  reason  they  puzzle  us  as  much  as 
we  puzzle  them  when  we  argue  with  them.  So,  more  mildly, 
I  said:  "All  right.  Tell  me  why  you  were  lunching  with  her." 

"Business." 

"How  do  you  mean,  business?  If  she  wants  a  frock,  surely 
she  can  go  round  to  Dromina's.  .  .  ." 

"Now  don't  start  off  again.  You  surely  don't  think  that 
I'm  going  to  spend  thirty  bob  on  lunching  Christine  for  the 
sake  of  a  frock?  Wouldn't  pay.  There's  quite  another  game 
on.  Little  Bear,  I'll  tell  you  a  bit  of  news — Pawlett's  chucked 
Sadie." 

Oh!  Sadie  was  down.  That's  why  Julian  kicked  her. 
But  I  was  puzzled.  "What's  that  got  to  do  with  your 
lunch?" 

"Didn't  you  listen  to  what  I  said?  That  Pawlett  ought 
to  chuck  Sadie  as  soon  as  he  got  anything  better?  Well,  he's 
got  it,  and  it's  Christine."  He  took  out  his  watch.  "Yes. 
Now  it's  Christine." 

I  had  a  horrible  suspicion.  "But  you  don't  mean  that  you 
arranged.  .  ..  Oh,  it's  unbelievable!  Julian  .  .  .  not  for 
money?" 

"Oh,  don't  be  silly!  You  look  at  me  as  if  I  was  a  white- 
slaver.  Course,  it  doesn't  do  to  be  too  particular,  but  Chris- 
tine had  a  sort  of  prejudice  against  Pawlett.  Somebody  had 
to  talk  her  over." 

"Why  should  you  be  that  person?" 


AWAKENING  253 

"Because  I  was  the  only  person  who  could  make  Christine 
believe  that  her  voice  would  last  three  acts." 

"Why  do  it?"  I  said,  quite  bewildered. 

"Because,"  said  Julian,  painstakingly,  "if  Christine  is 
sure  of  her  voice,  she  will  want  to  show  it  off.  If  she  wants 
to  show  it  off,  she  won't  be  able  to  get  away  from  the  cinema 
and  on  to  the  stage  unless  somebody  finances  a  musical 
comedy  for  her.  Now  do  you  see?" 

"No."  I  was  too  unhappy  to  see.  What  a  horrible  mesh 
this  was,  with  Julian  in  it  as  a  sort  of  spider. 

He  flushed  with  anger.  "Oh,  you're  dense!  Look  here. 
Christine  wouldn't  look  at  Pawlett,  but,  now  that  I've  con- 
vinced her  that  she  can  sing,  she'll  look  at  Pawlett  as  a  capi- 
talist. Pawlett  will  finance  Meerbrook's  opera  for  her.  And 
you  may  remember  that,  some  time  ago,  Meerbrook  and  I 
exchanged  a  little  bit  of  paper,  according  to  which,  if  I  get 
his  thing  on  the  boards,  I  am  to  do  the  forty  frocks.  That's 
at  least  a  hundred  and  fifty  guineas  commission  for  us." 

"Oh,"  I  cried,  "it's  horrid!" 

"Why  horrid?  Pawlett's  keen  on  Christine.  Well,  he's 
happy.  Christine  wants  to  be  a  star;  she  gets  her  chance. 
Meerbrook  wants  his  light  opera  staged.  He  gets  it.  And 
I  get,  not  only  a  hundred  and  fifty  guineas,  but  the  hell  of 
an  advert.  Everybody's  happy." 

"What  about  Sadie?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  Sadie!"  said  Julian.  "She'll  be  all  right.  She'll  get 
somebody  else." 

"Will  she?  Weren't  you  saying  that  she  was  losing  her 
looks?" 

He  turned  on  me  swiftly.  "Well,  in  that  case  she'd  soon 
have  lost  Pawlett  all  the  same.  So  what  harm  have  I  done 
her?" 

He  was  right.  I  couldn't  reproach  him;  he  had  merely 
scuttled  a  sinking  ship.  But  he  was  not  sure  of  me  yet,  and 
talked  for  a  long  time.  He  grew  cynical.  All  things  had  to 
end;  Sadie  had  had  her  chance;  she'd  played  her  cards 
badly.  I  thought,  "Comedian!"  It  was  no  use  my  trying 
to  ride  the  high  horse  over  him;  he  wasn't  going  to  be  bad- 


254  URSULA   TRENT 

gered  by  any  woman.  "Tragedian."  Or  again,  Sadie  still 
had  the  work  she  loved,  the  film;  he  was  very  sorry  for  Sadie, 
though  it  couldn't  be  helped.  Also  he'd  introduce  her  to 
everybody  he  knew,  so  as  to  give  her  a  chance.  "Ingenu!" 

At  last  he  took  my  hands  again;  his  face  very  close  to 
mine,  he  murmured:  "You  see  how  it  is?  You  understand, 
don't  you?" 

I  nodded. 

"You  don't  believe  there's  anything  between  Christine  and 
me,  do  you?" 

Again  I  nodded. 

"Well,  then,"  he  muttered,  and  the  sentence  expired  as  OUT 
lips  met. 

Oh,  I  did  love  him;  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  know  it  was 
physical,  but  when  he  held  me  like  that  I  couldn't  resist 
him.  Perhaps  his  beauty  enthralled  me  even  when  I  found 
him  base.  Even  to-day,  when  I  remember  the  smoothness  of 
those  golden  waves  under  my  hands,  when  for  a  moment  a 
ghostly  memory  takes  on  a  material  form,  and  lips  forgotten, 
but  still  fresh,  seek  mine,  moist  and  desirous,  carrying  upon 
their  firm  lines  a  faint  aroma  of  Egyptian  tobacco,  I  tell  my- 
self that  I  love  him  still,  wayward  demigod,  accidental  demon. 
Lots  of  women  go  to  their  grave  without  loving,  but  I  know 
what  it's  like.  It's  like  having  a  fishhook  in  one.  It  hurts, 
but  you  can't  get  it  out. 

in 

It  was  only  ten  o'clock.  "Let's  go  round  to  Moses  and  see 
his  new  pictures,"  said  Julian.  "They  change  the  program 
to-night." 

We  went.  I  was  glad  to  obey  him.  I  think  I  loved  him 
more  because  I  respected  him  less.  Contempt  brings  people 
closer  to  one.  We  went  along  Piccadilly.  At  the  corner  of 
Sackville  Street  I  saw  a  woman  watching  the  passers-by. 
It  was  Freda. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  I  said  to  Julian,  "I  want  to  talk  to  that 
girl." 

We  exchanged  a  few  words.    She  was  still  good-looking, 


AWAKENING  255 

still  cool,  still  secure.  She  pursued  the  life  she  had  made 
for  herself,  pursued  it  with  dignity.  Mr.  Higham  had 
thrown  her  over  long  ago.  Her  child  was  out  at  nurse  in 
Essex.  No,  she  wasn't  unhappy.  Life  was  like  that.  She 
was  doing  well.  She  hinted  that  she  had  a  little  money 
saved;  she  talked  of  a  future  return  with  a  dowry  to  a  patient 
Scandinavian  lover. 

"I  don't  like  your  having  anything  to  do  with  that  sort 
of  woman,"  remarked  Julian. 

"We  were  in  the  manicure  shop  together,  but  she  hasn't 
been  lucky." 

"Not  so  lucky  as  you,  Little  Bear,"  he  said,  pressing  my 
arm. 

"No,"  I  replied,  "not  so  lucky." 


Chapter  VH 
Never  Again 


SOMETIMES  I  wish  I  had  proper  pride,  and  the  right 
kind  of  feelings.  Life  would  bel  easier.  When  I 
discovered  that  Julian  had  practically  arranged  an  irregular 
alliance  between  Christine  and  Mr.  Pawlett,  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  have  drawn  myself  up  to  my  full  height  and  said, 
"All  is  over  between  us,  sir."  Only  life  is  a  long  way  from 
the  Lyceum.  One's  weak.  One  loves.  Another  way  of 
putting  it.  Instead,  well,  I  didn't  accept  what  he'd  done, 
but  I  decided  to  let  it  alone.  Being  a  woman,  I  could  tell 
myself  that  I  wasn't  qualified  to  criticize  business  methods. 
At  least  that's  how  I  put  it  to  myself  in  the  end. 

So  we  lived  very  happily  for  the  next  three  or  four  months. 
I  suspect  that  my  condonation  of  his  behavior  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  it;  I  was  in  an  inferior  position  to  him,  and, 
though  I  believe  in  votes,  female  equality,  all  that,  I  can't 
help  believing  that  men  and  women  live  most  happily  on  a 
basis  of  slight  feminine  inferiority.  Besides,  Julian  was 
charming.  He  was  also  more  interesting,  because  now  I  was 
in  a  way  his  accomplice,  and  so  he  let  me  see  something  of 
his  social  maneuvers.  Thus,  I  understood  how  he  made 
so  much  money  in  an  occupation  which  generally  yields  only 
a  thousand  or  so  a  year.  I  grew  used  to  his  methods.  One 
day  Julian  persuaded  a  woman  to  buy  an  entire  set  of  evening 
frocks,  by  informing  her  that  a  friend  of  his,  the  assistant 
editor  of  The  Perfect  Lady,  wanted  to  reproduce  them  .  .  . 
and  why  should  she  not  be  reproduced  with  the  frocks? 
Another  day  he  captured  a  young  peeress  and  made  her  buy 
three  models  for  a  hundred  guineas  each,  by  whispering  that 


NEVER  AGAIN  257 

these  were  ordered  by  a  celebrated  actress.  He  drove  her 
round  to  the  London  and  Brighton  goods  station,  collected 
the  case,  took  it  to  her  house,  promising  to  tell  the  actress 
that  the  models  were  lost.  Time  would  be  wasted  in  making 
inquiries,  while  the  peeress  wore  the  models.  Then  she 
should  return  them.  The  linings  would  be  changed.  The 
actress  would  wear  her  cast-offs.  If  the  trick  was  found  out, 
the  peeress  would  reply  that  she'd  given  them  to  her  maid  to 
sell. 

"But  what  about  your  client  the  actress?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  she!  She's  ceased  to  matter.  She's  taken  a  five- 
year  contract  in  the  States." 

I  hated  it.  But  it  seems  one  can  rise  only  on  other  people's 
bodies,  and  I  couldn't  help  enjoying  it.  His  appeal,  though 
always  to  the  lowest  vanity,  to  the  basest  desire  to  humiliate, 
to  the  vilest  spirit  of  competition,  was  amusing  and  nimble. 
After  all,  could  it  be  otherwise?  His  clients  were  fashionable 
women. 

We  went  to  Scotland  for  a  month.  He  wanted  to  take  me 
to  Braemer,  and  chaffed  me  w^hen  I  wouldn't  go.  "I  see," 
he  said.  "Afraid  of  having  to  introduce  me  to  the  King?" 
He  was  right,  I  was  rather  afraid  of  meeting  people  in  the 
Ballater  district.  In  the  end  we  went  to  Skye.  Skye  felt 
safe.  It  rained  nearly  all  the  time.  When  it  did  not,  we 
climbed  rocky  peaks  with  unpronounceable  names,  via 
terrifying  gullies,  where  one  held  on  with  elbows  and  knees. 
I  liked  it,  though  I  was  frightened.  It  was  so  birdlike  up 
there.  I  got  used  to  everything  except  the  descents,  especially 
down  screes  where  stones  rolled  and  gave  way  under  one's 
feet.  Julian  mainly  wore  a  suit  of  powder-blue  tweed 
through  which  ran  a  yellow-and-purple  pattern,  which  was 
quieter  than  it  sounds;  it  set  off  his  white  and  rose  skin 
adorably.  When  he  took  off  his  cap  and  the  wind  blew  his 
golden  locks  straight,  he  was  indeed  young  Apollo.  We  had 
cream  everywhere,  and  I  began  to  grow  a  little  stout,  much 
to  the  satisfaction  of  Julian,  who  said  that  when  he  first 
came  across  me  whenever  he  kissed  me  he  feared  I'd  rattle. 
We  were  so  far  away  from  the  world  in  Skye.  We  only  got 


258  URSULA   TRENT 

the  Daily  Mail  three  times  a  week.  Nobody  talked  of 
revues,  of  stunts;  most  of  the  people  came  from  Glasgow  or 
Edinburgh;  the  one  family  from  London  had  never  heard  of 
Tootoo.  One  didn't  do  anything  that  mattered  except  get 
fat  and  brown.  I  should  have  liked  to  stay  there  forever,  in 
a  cottage  by  a  wandering  burn,  printing  above  the  door, 
"Forever  wilt  thou  love  and  he  be  fair."  It's  lucky  I  didn't. 
I  should  have  got  bored.  I  know  that  sounds  cynical,  but, 
as  I've  said,  I  don't  have  the  right  kind  of  feelings. 


We  came  back  to  London  in  the  middle  of  September, 
feeling  a  little  strange  and  rather  excited.  Oh,  how  lovely 
Euston  Road  looked!  I  didn't  know  how  much  I  loved  it 
until  I  came  back.  Just  the  bookstall,  with  so  very  many 
publications  on  it.  Oh,  to  read  something  one  understood. 
About  things  one  knew!  and  no  longer  the  Scotsman  or  the 
Glasgow  Herald.  But  if  she  felt  a  little  strange  until  lunch 
time,  old  London  did  not  take  long  to  burst  upon  me.  We 
had  not  gone  a  hundred  yards  along  Piccadilly  when  we 
noticed  the  placard  of  the  evening  paper,  bearing  the  words : 

GREAT 
CINEMA 
CRASH 

"Poor  old  Moses!"  said  Julian. 

"How  do  you  mean?"  I  asked.  "Do  you  mean  Mr. 
Satterthwaite?" 

Julian  bought  a  paper  and  opened  it.  Indeed  it  was  a 
sensational  announcement.  There  was  a  panic  in  the  cinema 
world.  All  the  Satterthwaite  houses  were  closed,  and  in 
some  manner  beyond  my  understanding  a  renting  company 
and  several  producing  companies  were  down  too.  I  was 
silent  for  a  moment.  I  was  very  sorry  for  the  kindly  old 
Jew.  What  would  happen  to  Reuben  and  Esther?  Would 
they  rally  to  their  father?  The  son  give  up  religion?  and 


NEVER  AGAIN  259 

the  daughter  socialism?   Perhaps  Leopold  in  Chicago  would 
help. 

For  several  days  the  concussion  in  our  world  was  terrific. 
Lunch  and  dinner  parties  were  practically  arranged  to  discuss 
Satterthwaite.  What  had  happened?  What  would  happen? 
How  did  it  happen?  How  much  in  the  pound  could  he  pay? 
Oh,  it  was  all  right !  The  Union  film  people  were  buying  him 
up.  No,  it  wasn't  true.  Wouldn't  touch  the  show  with  a 
pitchfork.  The  houses  had  reopened.  No,  they  hadn't. 
They  were  being  turned  over  to  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  They  were 
being  converted  into  Turkish  baths. 

A  pathetic  figure  in  all  this  was  Sadie,  the  leading  lady  of 
one  of  the  film-producing  companies.  She  was  not  econom- 
ical and  had  saved  nothing  out  of  her  salary.  As  she  had 
lost  Mr.  Pawlett,  she  was  practically  penniless.  She  came 
to  weep  at  Dover  Street. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do.  Can't  get  a  shop  any- 
where. You  see,  there's  a  couple  of  hundred  thrown  out 
by  this  smash,  and  they're  just  fighting  at  the  agents." 

"  But  couldn't  you  get  something  less  than  a  leading  part?  " 
I  asked. 

"Catch  me  trying!  I'd  never  have  a  chance  again.  They 
want  to  get  you  down,  all  of  them.  An  agent  this  morning 
said  the  best  he  could  do  for  me  was  a  crowd  part.  A  crowd 
part!  For  me!  A  guinea  a  day  .  .  .  when  they  want  you. 
Got  to  wait  at  the  studio  on  the  chance,  like  a  man  at  the 
docks." 

"But  while  you're  looking  for  something  else?"  suggested 
my  prudence. 

"I'd  rather  walk  Regent  Street." 

Poor  Sadie!  She  didn't  look  as  if  she'd  have  much 
success  in  Regent  Street.  In  her  misery  she  seemed  quite 
forty. 

Ten  days  elapsed.  I  grew  conscious  of  certain  activities 
in  Julian.  He  was  proceeding  along  the  lines  that  governed 
business  in  our  world.  He  left  me  in  the  evening  to  see  Lord 
Alfred  Lydbrook.  A  chance  remark  showed  that  he  had 
some  dealings  with  Meerbrook  and  Harry  Lockwood.  He 


260  URSULA   TRENT 

would  give  me  no  details,  for  he  liked  to  spring  things  upon 
me  with  a  charming  air  of  boyishness.  Suddenly  I  dis- 
covered him  as  the  god  in  the  machine,  for  two  things  hap- 
pened together.  Sadie  was  given  a  small  part  in  a  new  revue 
that  Harry  Lockwood  was  staging.  It  was  just  enough  to 
keep  her  alive,  but  she  wouldn't  lose  caste  hi  the  cinema 
world.  Simultaneously  the  papers  stated  that  the  various 
compromised  film  companies  were  being  reconstructed  and 
that  a  scheme  was  being  laid  before  the  creditors. 

"Well,"  said  Julian,  leaning  back  in  his  armchair,  "poor 
old  Moses  is  going  to  have  another  ark.  I  believe  it  was 
Noah  had  the  ark,  but  never  mind." 

I  was  told  by  degrees  that  Julian  had  influenced  Lord 
Alfred  to  put  some  capital  into  the  business.  The  capital 
was  being  written  down  (whatever  that  may  mean).  The 
pound  shares  would  be  written  down  to  hah*  a  crown.  There 
would  be  an  issue  of  deferred  shares,  etc.  .  .  .  Oh,  the  things 
men  talk  about!  Even  my  Julian,  artist  though  he  was,  had 
an  understanding  of  money  that  is  no  woman's.  But  one 
thing  I  understood:  Satterthwaite  was  safe  and  was  re- 
starting on  new  lines.  He  was  giving  up  expensive  open-air 
productions  and  going  in  for  society  drama,  which  would 
not  cost  much  to  stage.  I  was  very  happy  then,  for  Sadie 
and  Satterthwaite  were  beautifully  grateful.  Sadie  was 
almost  too  grateful;  she  invaded  our  flat  whenever  she  was 
not  rehearsing,  talking  endlessly  of  the  kindness  and  sweet- 
ness of  Julian,  saying  she  wished  she  had  a  pal  like  him, 
vowing  that  if  something  of  his  sort  came  along  she  wouldn't 
think  twice  about  leaving  her  little  wooden  hut  if  he  just 
gave  her  a  come-on.  I  got  rather  tired  of  this  excited,  rather 
raddled  woman,  talking  the  ready-made  language  of  society 
catches.  Still,  one  must  suffer  when  one  does  good,  like  the 
Chinese,  who  must  feed  for  life  those  whom  they  rescue  from 
drowning. 

Satterthwaite  was  equally  grateful,  and  celebrated  the 
reconstruction  by  a  colossal  dinner  party,  where  I  drank  so 
much  champagne  that,  with  very  little  persuasion,  I  got  on 
the  table  and  sang  "Where  My  Caravan  Has  Rested."  At 


NEVER  AGAIN  261 

the  end  I  broke  down  and  wept.  At  least  I  think  so.  I 
have  a  confused  memory  of  Tootoo  brutally  remarking, 
"Pour  a  bucket  of  water  over  her,"  to  a  persistent  refrain 
from  Sir  Charles  Baldwin,  whose  ideas  on  feminine  clothing 
were  rather  1880,  and  who  loudly  proclaimed  that  he  was 
going  to  unlace  my  stays.  But  there  was  something  real 
about  Satterthwaite.  He  came  to  see  me  one  morning. 

"I've  come  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Quin,  instead  of  your  hus- 
band, because  he  says  I'm  not  to  thank  him.  Well,  I  want 
you  to  know  what  it  all  means  to  me;  I  was  going  to  shoot 
myself  when  he  came  in  and  helped  me.  We  Jews — I'm  a  Jew, 
Mrs.  Quin,  though  perhaps  you  wouldn't  think  it,  my  name 
being  Satterthwaite,  and  nobody'd  think  it  from  my  looks — 
well,  we  Jews,  we  don't  forget  what  people  have  done  for  us. 
So  I  want  you  to  know  that  if  there's  anything  in  the  world 
I  can  do  for  either  of  you,  I'll  do  it." 

I  got  rid  of  him,  because  his  thanks  made  me  awkward. 
I  liked  him  very  much;  his  simplicity  of  mind  was  disarming, 
but,  in  a  vague  way,  I  felt  guilty,  owing  to  impressions  that 
occupied  my  mind.  I  spoke  to  Julian  about  that. 

"Julian,  I  didn't  think  of  it  at  the  moment,  but  do  you 
remember  the  day  we  got  back  from  Scotland  and  saw  the 
placard  saying  that  Mr.  Satterthwaite  was  down?" 

"Yes,  what  about  it?" 

"Don't  you  remember  you  said,  'Poor  old  Moses'?  How 
did  you  know  it  was  Mr.  Satterthwaite?" 

A  little  blush  rose  in  his  cheeks.  "How  do  you  mean, 
how  did  I  know?"  He  bluffed,  "Of  course  I  knew." 

"How?" 

"I  guessed." 

"Oh?  You  knew  he  was  rocky,  then?  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me?" 

"Oh,  hang  it  all!  I  can't  tell  you  everything."  His  irrita- 
tion passed  away.  "Now  don't  be  silly.  One  would  think 
that  it  was  my  fault  he  came  down.  Haven't  I  been  doing 
everything  I  can  for  the  poor  old  blighter?" 

"Yes,  I  know;  it's  awfully  sweet  of  you." 

"Of  course,"   said  Julian,   tolerantly,   "one  can't  help 


262  URSULA   TRENT 

knowing  things,  and  if  they're  useful  to  you,  why  not  use 
them?" 

I  said  nothing  more;  I  didn't  quite  follow.  I  even  ac- 
cepted a  check  for  fifty  pounds  to  spend  on  "ribbons." 
Ribbons!  Men  are  so  irritating.  In  mamma's  time  they 
used  to  give  them  money  for  shawls;  now  it's  ribbons.  They 
have  no  feelings  for  clothes.  .  .  .  Even  dress  designers  are 
masculine. 

m 

Some  people  have  no  respect  for  property  in  books.  They 
wouldn't  take  one  of  your  stamps,  but  they'll  "borrow"  a 
first  edition  inscribed  to  you  by  the  author,  and  forget  to 
return  it.  In  my  new  world  they  were  obviously  not  par- 
ticular. One  afternoon  I  discovered  that  Sadie  had  gone 
even  farther;  she'd  borrowed  my  library  book.  That  makes 
one  rage,  because  it  practically  cuts  one  off  from  all  books,, 
since,  of  course,  one  never  buys  any.  I  wanted  a  book  badly, 
had  nothing  to  do.  So,  after  lunch,  I  was  energetic  enough 
to  go  round  to  Sadie's  flat  in  Bloomsbury.  Then,  to  complete 
my  irritation,  the  maid  who  opened  the  door  informed  me 
that  Sadie  was  not  at  home.  I  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

"When  will  she  be  back?"  I  asked. 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't  know,  ma'am." 

This  was  annoying.  "I  think  she's  got  a  book  of  mine 
that  she  was  looking  at  last  night.  I  want  it  back." 

"I'm  very  sorry,  ma'am." 

I  hesitated.  "I  wonder  whether  you  could  find  it  for  me. 
It's  got  the  library  label  on  it." 

"Well,  ma'am!"  The  girl's  face  suddenly  struck  me  as 
peculiar.  "  I  don't  think  I  could  look  through  Miss  Graf  ton's 
things,  ma'am." 

"Oh,  nonsense!  Look  here,  come  with  me  and  we'll  have 
a  look." 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't,  ma'am,"  said  the  girl,  firmly. 

I  stood  there  for  a  moment,  staring  at  her.  Then  I  smiled, 
and  the  maid  responded.  Upon  tH*  table  lay  a  silk  hat, 
gloves,  and  a  smart  cane. 


NEVER  AGAIN  263 

"Oh!"  I  said.  "Well,  I  expect  I'll  see  Miss  Grafton  later." 
But  as  I  turned  to  go  I  reflected  that  I  did  want  my  book 
very  badly;  I  couldn't  be  bothered  with  Sadie's  affairs;  so 
I  took  an  old  envelope  from  my  little  bag  and  wrote  on  it  a 
message,  begging  her  to  return  the  book  that  night.  The  hall 
was  very  small,  the  table  very  close.  I  laid  the  envelope  on 
it.  As  I  did  so,  I  saw  hi  the  crown  of  the  silk  hat  the  initials 
J.  Q.  Julian!  Whatever  was  he  doing  here?  And  at  this 
time!  A  quarter  past  three.  Business  again,  these  mysteri- 
ous maneuvers.  I  was  annoyed.  Why  should  I  be  shut  out 
from  his  business?  I'd  go  in  and  see  them. 

"It's  all  right,"  I  said.  "I  didn't  know  Mr.  Quin  was 
here.  I'm  Mrs.  Quin,"  and  made  as  if  to  pass  her. 

The  maid  actually  interposed  her  body  between  me  and 
the  door  of  the  drawing-room.  "I'm  very  sorry,  ma'am,  but 
I  don't  think  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  Miss  Grafton  is  talking  business 
with  the  gentleman." 

"I  know,  I  know.  But  I'm  Mrs.  Quin.  Can't  you 
see?" 

"I'm  very  sorry,  ma'am.  My  orders  are  Miss  Graf  ton's 
not  to  be  disturbed." 

I  don't  know  why,  but  as  she  said  that  suspicion  rose  in 
me  like  a  Verey  light.  My  heart  began  to  pump;  a  little 
electric  bell  rang  in  each  ear.  I  couldn't  see  properly.  I 
suppose  I  was  blind  with  rage.  I  expect  that  hi  another 
second  I  should  have  seized  the  maid  by  the  throat.  I'm 
like  that,  I'm  afraid.  But  just  as  we  were  confronting  each 
other,  strained  like  steel  wires,  a  door  opened  on  the  corridor 
and  Sadie  came  out,  staring  in  her  surprise.  For  a  moment 
I  went  numb  all  over,  for  her  hair  was  down.  We  stood  quite 
still  for  a  second,  we  three.  It  was  like  a  scene  on  the  stage. 
I  saw  fear  in  Sadie's  blue  eyes.  After  a  moment  she  must 
have  been  so  frightened  that  she  had  to  speak. 

"Hullo!"  she  said.  "I  didn't  know  you  were  here."  I 
did  not  reply.  She  gave  me  a  false  smile.  "  Go  away,  dar- 
ling. You're  dee  tropp.  Can't  you  see?"  She  winked. 
Still,  I  did  not  move.  It  must  have  been  awful  for  her,  my 
stillness  and  my  silence.  She  couldn't  bear  it.  She  came 


264  URSULA   TRENT 

toward  me,  whispering:  "Go  on,  darling.  Mustn't  spoil 
sport.  See  you  later."  She  turned  to  go.  "Ta-ta." 

Energy  returned  to  me.    I  called  to  her,  "Sadie!" 

She  turned.  "What  is  it?  Don't  make  such  a  devil  of 
a  row." 

"Why  not?    I'm  not  afraid  of  Julian  hearing  me." 

Then  she  went  pale,  but  she  was  game,  and  blustered: 
"Julian!  What  the  devil  do  you  mean?  What's  Julian  got 
to  do  with  it?" 

I  was  looking  at  her  steadily.  "Julian's  in  there, 
isn't  he?" 

"My  dear  child,  you  must  be  dippy." 

"Dippy,  indeed!    You're  not  alone,  are  you,  Sadie?" 

"No,  of  course  not,  but . . ." 

"What's  the  name  of  your  guest?" 

"Really,  you  know,  this  is  a  bit  thick." 

"What's  his  name?  If  you  don't  tell  me,  I'm  going  to 
stay  and  meet  him." 

Obviously  she  was  in  a  panic.  "Look  here,  old  dear,"  she 
said,  "you  really  mustn't  do  that."  I  seized  a  chair  and  sat 
on  it.  "Oh,  damn  it  all!  I  can't  give  the  fellow  away." 
We  faced  each  other  silently  for  some  time,  the  maid  looking 
on  with  marvelous  coolness.  At  last  Sadie  burst  out:  "Well, 
I  suppose  I've  got  to  be  rotten,  just  because  you're  potty. 
It's  Lockwood." 

"Oh,"  I  said,  gently,  picking  up  the  silk  hat.  "How  did 
Mr.  Lockwood  come  to  exchange  hats  with  Julian?" 

She  did  not  understand  at  once.  Then,  perceiving  the 
initials,  her  self-control  deserted  her.  She  had  only  enough 
presence  of  mind  to  remark,  "  Get  out ! "  to  the  maid.  Then 
she  flung  herself  on  her  knees  before  me,  trying  to  seize  the 
hands  which  I  withdrew,  begging  me  to  believe  that  it  was 
an  accident,  that  they'd  had  lunch  together,  that  he'd  come 
in  for  a  drink.  She  was  crying;  her  tears  furrowed  the 
powder  on  her  face.  I  looked  at  her  icily,  while  she  pro- 
tested; at  first  I  had  been  judicial,  like  a  lawyer;  I  cross- 
examined  her;  now  I  was  merely  incredulous  and  disgusted. 
Could  Julian  be  unfaithful  to  me  with  a  creature  like  that? 


NEVER  AGAIN  265 

I  suppose  women  are  always  amazed  when  their  men  turn 
to  other  women.  Their  vanity  crashes.  She  went  on 
protesting.  She  swore  it  had  never  happened  before.  Be- 
sides, I  was  quite  wrong.  She  was  ill.  She  was  all  in  a 
fever.  Oh,  if  only  I'd  go  away  and  believe  her,  she'd  never 
see  Julian  again;  she'd  take  a  job  hi  the  States.  Only  I  was 
to  say  something.  For  God's  sake  I  was  to  say  something. 
How  contemptible  she  seemed!  Not  because  she'd  taken  my 
man,  but  because  she  crawled.  If  she'd  faced  me  I  could 
have  hated  her. 

Suddenly  I  loathed  her.  I  got  up.  I  wasn't  going  to  stay  in 
this  place  any  more,  hi  this  vile,  immoral  place  (Pharisee!) 
while  this  worm  writhed  at  my  feet.  I  planned  my  departure, 
very  cold  and  dignified.  Of  course,  I  would  never  see  Julian 
again.  Then  I  heard  his  voice:  "Sadie,  what  are  you  palav- 
ering about?  I  say  .  .  ."  He  drew  nearer,  stopped  short, 
staring  at  me. 

And  once  more  the  theatrical  scene  set  itself  with  different 
characters,  Julian  and  I  standing  hi  silence,  and  the  woman 
taken  in  adultery  weeping  on  the  floor.  But  I  couldn't  be 
cold  and  dignified.  Ursula  Trent  of  Giber  Court,  at  the 
sight  of  her  lover,  lost  all  the  instinct  of  an  English  gentle- 
woman. I  took  a  step  forward,  trying  to  speak,  and  discover- 
ing that  the  stage  rightly  shows  us  people  who  speak  be- 
tween then*  clenched  teeth.  I  couldn't  get  them  apart. 

"Beast!  Cad!  So  that's  what  you  were  doing!  I  hate 
you." 

"Look  here,  Little  Bear  . . ." 

"Don't  speak  to  me.  What  do  you  want  to  speak  to  me 
for?  You've  got  no  use  for  me."  He  made  an  uncertain 
gesture.  "Don't  touch  me.  What  have  you  got  to  do  with 
me?  Isn't  she  good  enough  for  you?" 

"Oh,  Little  Bear,"  moaned  Sadie,  getting  up,  "don't  say 
things  like  that!" 

I  took  not  the  slightest  notice  of  her.  I  was  still  looking 
at  Julian.  "You  lied  to  me  all  this  year,  I  suppose.  How 
many  mistresses  have  you  had?  You  cur!  You  little  curled 
puppy?  With  your  pretty  ways  and  your  lying  tongue.  I  sup- 


266  URSULA   TRENT 

pose  everybody  knows  about  this  and  I'm  everybody's  joke. 
I  suppose  everybody's  talking  of  your  keep.  The  poor  little 
thing,  so  innocent,  I  suppose.  Can't  say  boo  to  a  goose, 
can  she?  It  needs  an  accident  for  her  to  find  out  your  affair 
with  this  creature." 

Sadie  suddenly  grew  angry.  "Who  the  devil  do  you  think 
you  are?"  she  asked.  "What  about  you?  Where  are  your 
marriage  lines?  I've  kept  myself  since  I  was  fourteen,  but 
I  haven't  been  on  the  streets,  but  nobody  knows  where  you 
were  picked  up." 

I  don't  know  why,  but  still  I  didn't  notice  her.  I  could 
see  only  Julian.  I  wanted  to  say  lacerating  things  to  him, 
things  he  wouldn't  forget.  I  wanted  to  hurt  him.  It's  easy 
enough,  with  one's  dignity  gone. 

"  How  many  more  have  you  got  ?  "  I  asked.  "  This  creature 
here,  I  suppose  you  deceive  her  like  me,  don't  you?  You're 
a  kind  person,  Julian,  aren't  you?  With  a  taste  for  elderly 
duchesses.  I  suppose  they  reciprocate  yc  IT  feelings,  and  it 
brings  you  orders." 

"Here!"  said  Sadie,  suddenly  energetic.  "I'm  not  going 
to  be  bullied  about.  Get  out."  I  did  not  move.  She  seized 
me  by  the  arm.  "Hop  it!"  At  the  contact  of  that  hand 
Ursula  Trent  automatically  turned  and  struck  Sadie  in  the 
mouth.  She  gave  a  scream.  Oh,  the  satisfaction  of  that 
scream !  of  the  flesh  giving  under  my  hand.  I  went  mad  for  a 
moment.  Before  Julian  could  intervene  I  struck  her  again 
and  again;  seizing  her  by  her  unbound  hair,  I  dragged  her 
to  the  floor.  A  strange  savagery  was  upon  me.  I  de- 
liberately wanted  to  mark  her,  to  disfigure  her.  It  hap- 
pened so  quickly  that  I  did  not  resist  as  Julian  dragged 
me  away.  I  just  saw  that  he  was  greeny  pale,  as  if  afraid 
of  me.  He  need  not  have  been.  At  his  dear  contact  (I 
perceived  his  scent,  honey  and  flowers  hair  wash,  and 
Egyptian  tobacco)  I  went  weak.  The  near  sweetness  of 
him  took  the  rage  out  of  me.  I  hated  him,  yes,  but  just 
then  I  felt  mainly  misery.  I  let  him  push  me  into  the 
drawing-room.  All  was  over.  I'd  better  go.  I  couldn't 
bear  to  see  him  again.  I'd  go  home  and  pack.  Then  he 


NEVER  AGAIN  267 

opened  the  door.    He  still  looked  frightened;  he  didn't  dare 
to  scold  me.    He  tried  to  be  airy. 

"Look  here,  Little  Bear,"  he  said,  "it's  all  a  mistake. 
Just  stay  here  for  a  moment  while  .  .  .  Well,  I'll  be  back  in 
a  moment,  and  I'll  take  you  home.  I'll  explain.  You'll  stay 
here,  won't  you?" 

He  must  have  taken  my  silence  for  consent,  for  he  left 
me,  but  as  soon  as  he  had  gone  I  crept  to  the  door,  went  out. 
He  came  out  of  the  room  just  as  I  closed  the  front  door, 
but  he  did  not  dare  to  pursue  the  weeping  figure  that  ran 
down  the  stairs. 
18 


Chapter  VIII 
"But  Still!" 


I  HAD  no  plans.  Just  to  get  away,  not  to  see  them  any 
more.  As  I  walked  down  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  very  fast, 
I  was  conscious  of  worry  rather  than  of  misery.  Then  my 
ideas  grew  more  precise.  I  would  go  to  the  flat,  pack,  go 
away  somewhere,  get  something  to  do.  I  didn't  think  of 
what  to  do,  of  how  much  money  I  had,  how  I  should  find 
work,  and  where  to  live.  I  was  running  away  from  my 
misfortune;  I  had  not  the  coolness,  nor  did  I  encourage  the 
hopes  which  made  up  my  baggage  when  I  paused  on  Waterloo 
Bridge  two  years  before.  At  Piccadilly  Circus  I  paused, 
struck  by  an  idea.  Pack!  What  a  fool  I'd  been!  Why 
hadn't  I  taken  a  taxi?  Julian  wouldn't  let  me  go  like  that. 
I  don't  know  why  I  thought  that,  for  obviously  he  couldn't 
want  me  much.  But  he'd  think  he  ought  to  win  me  back; 
men  are  slaves  to  the  proper  thing,  and  always  do  it  most 
intensely  when  they  don't  want  to.  I  couldn't  face  him;  I 
couldn't  stay  in  that  flat  and  pack  while  he  explained  and 
explained  and  lied.  No,  I'd  never  go  back.  I'd  been  poor 
before;  I  could  be  poor  again.  I  might  buy  a  toothbrush  at 
the  chemist's.  But  don't  be  too  censorious  when  I  confess 
that  I  remembered  the  skunk  tippet  and  muff  which,  pru- 
dently foreseeing  the  winter,  I  had  the  day  before  bought 
with  Julian's  fifty  pounds.  Furs!  Men  don't  know  how 
adorable  are  furs,  nor  lace.  They  don't  understand  that  a 
woman  would  go  to  the  devil  for  enough  real  lace.  Well, 
the  furs  must  go,  but  I  won't  pretend  that  they  went  cheer- 
fully. I  must  buy  a  toothbrush.  I  went  into  the  chemist's 
near  the  Monico,  and  bought  a  toothbrush. 

"Very  hard  bristles,"   I  said.     Somehow  hard  bristles 
symbolized  the  future. 


"BUT  STILL!"  269 

I  stood  for  a  moment  by  the  fountain,  holding  my  prop- 
erty, and  only  then  did  I  grow  afraid.  It  was  a  soft  Septem- 
ber day;  everybody  was  about,  opulent  in  large  cars  and 
jolly  on  the  tops  of  omnibuses.  The  girls  still  wore  their 
summer  frocks;  the  men  looked  adventurous.  I  felt  alone 
among  them.  Losing  Julian,  I  supposed  I  lost  everybody. 
Acquaintances  were  perishable  things;  Christine,  Slindon, 
Arf  a  Mo',  if  I  went  on  knowing  them  I  couldn't  keep  clear 
of  Julian.  Besides  .  .  .  they  didn't  lunch  at  A  B  C's,  as  I 
was  going  to  do.  Terror  seized  me.  That  was  all  very  well, 
but  how  much  money  had  I?  In  my  purse  I  found  half  a 
crown,  three  halfpence,  and  my  latchkey.  I  shivered.  What 
a  symbol!  Half  a  crown  or  the  latchkey?  Which?  Every 
woman's  problem,  I  suppose.  How  long  could  I  live  on  half 
a  crown?  I  had  seven  pounds  in  bank  notes  locked  up  in 
my  trunk.  No,  never!  With  a  theatrical  gesture  I  flung  the 
latchkey  down  a  drain.  Then  I  felt  better. 

Still,  I  had  only  two  and  sevenpence  halfpenny.  If  only 
I  could  get  a  job  now,  perhaps  they'd  give  me  something  in 
advance.  Then  for  a  moment  I  forgot  my  troubles  as  I 
watched  the  maneuvers  of  a  woman  who,  followed  by  a  man, 
was  slowly  crossing  the  Circus.  She  turned  her  head  a  little, 
to  see  whether  he  was  following,  then  walked  a  little  slower, 
so  as  not  to  leave  him  behind.  Then  she  pretended  to  wait 
for  a  bus,  while  the  man  stood  three  yards  off,  hesitating. 
She  turned  her  back;  he  came  closer.  She  turned  toward 
him;  he  moved  away.  She  dropped  her  little  bag;  he  picked 
it  up.  I  crossed  to  Swan  &  Edgar's.  Somehow  it  felt  in- 
discreet to  listen.  Yes,  this  was  the  way.  I'd  be  a  slave  again, 
yes,  but  there'd  be  no  more  lying  about  love.  Then  an  old 
man,  seeing  me  standing  about,  came  up  to  me  and  took  off 
his  hat.  Before  he  could  speak  I  had  run  across  Piccadilly. 
I'm  no  good;  I've  no  courage;  I'm  only  a  damned  lady.  It  is 
significant  of  my  damned  ladyhood  that  an  impulse  made  me 
jump  into  a  taxi  and  tell  the  man  to  drive  me  to  the  Mau- 
soleum Club.  I  would  ask  Lord  Alfred  Lydbrook  to  suggest 
something.  Oh,  I'm  a  mere  woman.  I  take  a  taxi  when  I've 
only  got  half  a  crown;  injured  by  a  man,  I  fly  to  another  man. 


270  URSULA   TRENT 

Lord  Alfred  was  not  at  the  Mausoleum,  but  I  seemed 
so  distressed  that  the  porter  broke  a  rule,  and  informed  me 
that  Lord  Alfred's  other  club  was  the  Gadarene.  I  wralked 
to  the  Gadarene,  in  St.  James's  Street.  I'd  given  the 
taximan  my  half  crown,  and  had  only  three  halfpence. 
After  I  had  waited  a  few  minutes  in  a  little  cold  room,  Lord 
Alfred  came  down.  I  nearly  kissed  him,  he  looked  so  kind. 
An  air  of  concern  overspread  his  large,  pink  features;  his 
yellow  mustache  drooped  more  than  usual.  He  was  about 
forty-five,  and  looked  like  a  blushing  seal. 

"  Well,  Little  Bear,"  he  said,  "I'll  do  anything  in  the  world 
for  you." 

"How  do  you  know  I  want  anything?"  I  said,  loving  him 
for  having  guessed. 

"You  wouldn't  wake  up  an  old  bachelor  from  his  slumbers 
at  his  club  just  for  fun,  would  you?  Sit  down." 

He  listened  patiently  to  my  story,  now  and  then  nodding. 
But  he  said  nothing.  After  a  time  that  annoyed  me. 

"What  do  you  think?"  I  said. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Lord  Alfred,  "you  were  very  fond  of 
huii,  weren't  you?" 

"Of  course,  but  after  what  he's  done  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  I  know,  I  know.    Still,  it's  the  first  time,  isn't  it?" 

"So  far  as  I  know." 

"So  far  as  matters,  then." 

"Oh,  don't  be  cynical, Lord  Alfred.  I  can't  bear  it  to-day." 

"I'm  not  being  cynical,  my  dear,"  he  said,  taking  my  hand 
in  his,  that  looked  like  a  bunch  of  pink  sausages,  "only  you 
must  understand  that  men  take  these  things  lightly." 

"Lightly!"  I  said,  hi  a  tragic  tone. 

"Yes,  of  course.  I  don't  mean  it  isn't  wrong  of  him,  but 
we're  all  a  bit  like  that,  Little  Bear.  You  see,  you  women 
are  so  charming  and  we're  so  weak.  He'll  have  forgotten 
Sadie  in  a  month." 

"Do  you  think  I'll  forget  him  in  a  month?" 

"Of  course  you  won't,  and  that's  just  it.  Women  make  a 
fuss  about  things  we  think  trifles." 

"I  was  a  trifle  to  Julian,  then?" 


"BUT  STILL1"  271 

"No,  no,  no.  Sometimes  men  really  fall  in  love,  but  they 
make  love  to  women  just  because,  well,  it's  polite.  It's  a 
habit.  My  dear  child,  you're  very  fond  of  Quin.  Don't 
throw  your  happiness  away  because  your  pride's  offended. 
Give  him  another  chance  and  try  to  make  yourself  more 
attractive  than  the  others." 

I  was  stung.  "Do  you  really  mean  to  say  .  .  .  Really, 
this  is  too  bad." 

"Isn't  there  some  truth  in  that?" 
"Oh,  well,  even  if  there  were,  I  sha'n't  go  back." 
"'Fraid  you  won't,"  said  Lord  Alfred.     "Since  you're 
beginning  to  feel  a  little  in  the  wrong,  you're  going  to  get 
obstinate,  aren't  you?"    He  smiled.    He  was  such  a  man 
of  the  world.    JBut  he  didn't  understand  the  depth  of  my 
offense.    So  I  said: 

"No,  it's  no  good.  I  know  you're  trying  to  do  the  best  for 
me,  but  I  can't  go  back." 

He  accepted  that  at  once.  He  was  a  man  of  the  world 
enough  to  take  into  account  even  a  woman's  folly.  "Well, 
that's  that,"  he  remarked.  "You  say  you  want  a  job  of 
some  sort.  You'd  better  walk  on.  You'll  make  a  sensation, 
and  after  a  few  weeks  I'll  see  if  I  can  get  you  a  few  lines  to 
speak.  Only,  I  can't  think  of  anybody  who'll  take  you  on 
just  now.  Lockwood's  full  up,  I  know,  and  Pershore  is 
running  a  Shakespearian  season.  'Fraid  we'll  have  to  wait  a 
bit." 

"But  I  can't.    I've  only  got  three  halfpence." 
"That's  all  right.    We'll  scratch  up  some  money." 
"Oh,  I  can't  do  that."     Ursula  Trent  of  Ciber  Court 
couldn't  borrow  money  from  a  man. 
"Then  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 
"I  don't  know.     Pick  up  a  living,  I  suppose." 
"Silly  thing  to  do,  don't  you  think?   To  hang  about  hi  the 
wet  for  a  couple  of  pounds,  when  I'll  let  you  have  a  hundred 
for  nothing." 

His  beautiful  indifference  to  the  moral  question  moved 
me.  "All  right,"  I  said.  "I'll  take  it."  He  wrote  out  and 
handed  me  a  check  for  this  vast  sum.  As  I  shook  hands, 


272  URSULA   TRENT 

I  said,  "I  believe  you're  the  only  man  I  know  who'd  do  this 
for  me  without  .  .  .  well,  I  mean  just  like  that." 

He  patted  my  hand.  "Don't  talk  rot,"  he  remarked. 
"  Go  and  buy  yourself  some  toothpowder  since  you've  got  the 
toothbrush.  You  girls  never  think  of  anything.  And  let 
me  know  your  address  as  soon  as  you've  got  one." 


Suddenly  it  struck  me  that  to  avoid  the  flat  was  an  act 
of  cowardice.  I  ought  to  go  back  and  pack.  I  do  not  pretend 
that  before  coming  to  this  heroic  resolution  I  had  not  worked 
out  that  I  must  spend  at  least  twenty  pounds  out  of  Lord 
Alfred's  check  just  on  linen  and  spare  boots.  Also,  winter 
was  coming  and  I'd  have  to  buy  furs,  or  at  least  some  sort 
of  cloak.  If  only  I  hadn't  bought  those  furs!  Oh,  I  won't 
pretend  any  more.  I  wanted  my  things  badly,  and  so  told 
myself  that  I  ought  to  face  it  out.  It's  years  ago,  so  I'll  own 
up.  Besides,  Julian  might  not  be  at  home.  If  he  wasn't 
it  would  be  easier,  and  I  should  have  been  heroic  all  the 
same,  since  I  was  prepared  to  affront  him. 

Julian  was  at  home.  Evidently  he  had  been  waiting  for 
me,  for  he  was  pacing  up  and  down,  and  in  the  grate  lay  the 
stumps  of  hah*  a  dozen  cigarettes.  I  took  no  notice  of  him 
and  walked  into  my  bedroom.  Somehow  I  felt  less  miserable 
and  less  angry  with  him,  probably  because  I  now  had  a  good 
deal  to  do.  He  did  not  follow  me,  so  for  some  minutes  I 
piled  my  clothes  on  the  bed.  I  almost  forgot  him;  he  no 
longer  existed.  Then  the  door  opened  and  I  heard  his  voice, 
"Have  some  tea?"  I  did  not  reply.  " It  hasn't  been  stand- 
ing. I  told  Beatrice  to  be  ready  to  bring  it  up  as  soon  as 
you  came  in." 

I  turned  on  him,  flaming.  "What  made  you  think  I'd 
come  back?" 

He  tried  to  smile,  but  he  looked  like  a  beaten  dog.  He  was 
very  nervous,  and  trying  to  be  jaunty. 

"Oh,  come  on,  Little  Bear,"  he  said,  "don't  get  shirty." 

"Shirty!"  I  gasped.    I  couldn't  help  it.    I  let  loose  at  him 


"BUT  STILL1"  273 

a  long  catalogue  of  wrongs.  I  ended  up:  "I've  found  you 
out  and  it's  no  use  your  saying  anything.  I'm  going,  and 
you'll  never  see  me  again.  I  never  want  to  see  your  face 
again.  Never." 

He  took  a  step  toward  me,  holding  out  his  hands.  "Little 
Bear,"  he  murmured,  "  don't  go.  Oh,  I  know  I've  been  rotten 
to  you.  Don't  go."  He  tried  to  take  my  hand. 

"Go  'way,"  I  said,  backing.    "Don't  touch  me." 

Then  a  horrible  thing  happened.  He  flung  himself  upon 
his  knees  before  me,  snatched  my  hand,  kissed  it,  murmuring, 
in  a  voice  that  grew  more  and  more  broken,  denials  of  his 
conduct,  confused  explanations,  promises  of  faithfulness. 
I  couldn't  reply,  for  I  felt  moisture  on  my  hand.  He  was 
crying.  It  was  terrible.  I'd  never  seen  a  man  cry. 

At  last  I  repeated:  "Let  me  go.  Go  away,  go  away!" 
But  I  was  helpless.  He  must  have  known  it,  for  suddenly 
he  raised  his  face  to  me,  and,  indeed,  his  eyes  were  swim- 
ming, his  cheeks  were  wet. 

"Don't  leave  me,"  he  said.  "I  was  mad.  I  can't  do  with- 
out you.  I'll  go  to  the  devil  if  you  leave  me." 

"Why  did  you  do  it?"  I  asked,  feebly. 

"I  couldn't  help  it.    I  was  sorry  for  Sadie." 

"Sorry?" 

"Well,  you  see,  she  was  the  one  who  got  let  down  in 
that  business  between  Christine  and  Pawlett.  Meerbrook 
couldn't  do  anything  for  her.  Oh,  if  only  you'd  see,  I  was 
sorry  for  her;  one  gets  entangled." 

I  stared  at  him.  Indeed,  I  believe  he  was  telling  the  truth. 
It  was  just  because  he  was  kind  and  weak  that  he'd  done  this. 
Sadie  wanted  him,  I  suppose.  He  didn't  want  to  hurt  her. 
He  didn't  want  to  hurt  me,  either. 

"I'll  never  see  her  again." 

"No,"  I  replied,  after  a  moment.  "I've  got  no  ill  feeling 
against  you,  Julian,  but  I've  got  to  go." 

He  flung  both  arms  round  my  knees,  burying  his  face 
against  me,  and  again  choked  with  tears.  For  a  moment  I 
bore  it;  then — I  half  despise  myself  as  I  think  of  it — I  couldn't 
bear  to  have  him  cry,  this  weak  thing,  this  dependent,  this 


274  URSULA   TRENT 

lovely,  pitiful  creature.  I  half  understood  him.  Lord 
Alfred  was  right;  women  can't  share  themselves,  and  even 
when  they  are  unfaithful  they  establish  a  sort  of  symbolic 
difference  between  two  men.  But  men  are  different;  men 
are  casual. 

He  was  still  crying.  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  had  to  put  my 
arms  round  my  little  boy  and  comfort  him.  Yes,  he'd  done 
wrong,  like  a  child  that  does  damage.  "Don't  cry,"  I  mur- 
mured, my  cheek  against  his.  "Let's  try  to  forget."  As  I 
spoke  I  despised  myself  for  being  overcome.  Weakness, 
not  strength,  can  have  power  over  women;  the  weakness  of 
men  calls  to  us.  "The  tyranny  of  tears"  exerts  itself. 

He  looked  up  at  me,  smiling  through  his  tears.  Then,  with 
his  wet  eyes,  he  was  beautiful  as  a  Greuze  picture.  He 
kissed  me.  He  wiped  his  eyes.  He  got  up.  His  smile  grew 
more  assured.  It  was  over.  He  was  forgiven,  and  he  was 
forgetting  already.  Indeed,  it  was  almost  too  easy.  As  he 
poured  out  the  tea,  he  said: 

"Pretty  strong,  isn't  it?" 

Indeed  we  women  are  abject.  In  love  relations  the  vanity 
of  men  seems  always  to  increase,  while  we  grow  more  humble. 
Perhaps  it  is  because  we're  less  sure  of  ourselves.  There  are 
so  many  of  us.  We  are  indeed  the  superfluous  sex. 

We  talked  amiably  over  tea.  I  was  very  shaken,  and 
from  time  to  time  threw  a  side  glance  at  the  man  who  had 
wept.  Could  he  be  the  same  as  this  one  who  laughed?  But 
I  wouldn't  show  it.  I'd  forgiven  him  and  I  mustn't  stop 
halfway.  I  must  espouse  his  mood,  so  I  laughed  more  than 
he  did,  and  even  extracted  from  my  memory  a  funny  story 
he'd  not  heard  before.  He  was  very  gay.  I  think  he  was 
rather  proud  of  himself  because  he  had  been  unfaithful  to 
me  and  reconquered  me  all  the  same.  He  was  surer  of  me 
than  before.  We  talked  of  some  frocks  he  was  planning;  of 
Ninette,  who  was  very  wretched,  though  she  wouldn't  con- 
fess it,  because  Roderick  Bentham  had  suddenly  reformed 
and  ceased  to  beat  her.  She'd  lost  her  grievance.  We  made 
a  lot  of  conversation  about  Christine,  who  went  about 
everywhere  saying  that  Pawlett  bored  her,  and  that  she  was 


"BUT  STILLl"  275 

going  back  to  Miltiades.  We  talked  of  everybody  but 
Sadie. 

After  tea,  Julian,  as  if  to  celebrate  the  reconciliation,  tele- 
phoned a  theater  for  two  stalls  and  ordered  a  table  at  the 
Carlton.  I  reproved  him  for  his  extravagance. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  "that's  all  right.  We've  been  doing  rather 
well  lately." 

"How's  that?  Surely  you  haven't  booked  many  orders 
yet?  Why,  only  half  the  models  are  in!" 

"I  know.  Of  course,  one  can't  do  much  business  in  Sep- 
tember, but  I  don't  mean  that.  We've  made  a  bit." 

I  remained  silent.  I  saw  that  he  wanted  to  tell  me  some- 
thing, and  was  hiding  it,  as  a  cat  pauses  over  its  mouse  to 
enhance  its  relish.  At  last  he  couldn't  contain  himself.  My 
little  boy  had  to  boast. 

"I've  had  a  little  flutter,"  he  said,  "on  the  Stock  Ex- 
change." 

"You  mean  you've  speculated?" 

"Yes.  And  it's  come  off."  He  looked  at  me  trium- 
phantly, stroking  my  arm.  Why  do  men  always  caress  us 
when  they've  been  successful?  A  condescending  kindness, 
I  suppose;  they  want  to  make  us  happy  in  the  only  way 
they  think  a  woman  can  be  made  happy,  by  petting.  I 
wasn't  quite  in  the  mood  to  be  caressed  by  the  man  I  had 
forgiven,  so  I  drew  away. 

He  understood  my  repulsion  at  once  and  grew  serious. 
"Yes,  we've  done  pretty  well.  Made  just  over  fourteen 
hundred  pounds." 

"Oh!"  I  said.  I  was  impressed.  I  didn't  mind  gambling. 
Men  smoke,  swear,  and  gamble.  Besides,  it  was  a  lot  of 
money. 

"Yes,  I  did  a  little  business  in  cinema  shares.  It's  an  ill 
wind  that  blows  nobody  any  good.  If  old  Moses  hadn't 
smashed  when  he  did,  I  might  have  been  let  down." 

"I  don't  understand.  What  had  your  business  to  do  with 
Mr.  Satterthwaite?" 

"Don't  you  see?    I  beared  his  stock." 

"Beared?    You  mean  ...  oh  yes,  I  remember  you  told 


276  URSULA   TRENT 

me  something  about  that  once.  Bearing  means  selling 
shares,  doesn't  it?  But  I  didn't  know  you'd  got  any  cinema 
shares." 

"Of  course  I  hadn't,  you  silly  kid.  I'd  have  had  to  have 
money  to  buy  'em  with.  I  sold  short  of  stock."  I  looked 
blank,  so  he  explained.  "Look  here;  it's  like  this.  You  can 
buy  shares  without  money.  You  don't  have  to  pay  for  them 
till  the  account,  a  fortnight  off.  Then,  if  you  can't  pay,  you 
sell  the  shares,  make  the  difference  if  they've  gone  up,  or 
pay  the  difference  if  they've  gone  down.  The  same  day  you 
buy  another  lot  of  shares  for  the  next  account.  They  charge 
you  interest  for  lending  you  the  money.  Do  you  see?  Well, 
if  you  want  to  sell  shares  you  haven't  got,  it's  the  same 
thing.  When  the  time  comes  to  deliver  the  shares  you've 
sold,  somebody  lends  you  the  shares  for  a  fortnight.  That's 
how  I  managed  to  sell  the  cinema  shares  I  hadn't  got.  I 
started  selling  in  July;  they  went  down  a  bit,  and  I  made 
a  bit  every  fortnight,  but  of  course  I  didn't  scoop  it  until 
old  Moses  went  smash.  Then  the  shares  came  down  with 
a  run.  I'd  sold  my  shares  on  an  average  at  eighteen  shillings; 
I  bought  'em  back  at  four  and  threepence.  As  I'd  dealt 
in  two  thousand  shares,  I  made  about  fourteen  hundred 
pounds." 

"But,"  I  cried  out,  "what  would  have  happened  if  they'd 
gone  up  instead  of  down  ?  " 

"I'd  have  lost  my  money." 

"Wasn't  it  rather  rash?" 

He  smiled.  "It  would  have  been  rather  rash  if  I  hadn't 
been  pretty  sure  Moses  was  coming  down." 

"How  did  you  know?" 

"Oh,  one  never  exactly  knows." 

"Then  it  was  a  gamble?" 

"Not  exactly."  He  hesitated,  opened  his  mouth,  shut  it 
again,  but  he  had  to  talk.  "Look  here;  I  don't  mind  telling 
you,  but  don't  let  it  go  any  farther.  In  July  I  found  out  that 
old  Moses  was  rather  rocky.  He'd  given  a  mortgage  to  a 
fellow  called  Badsworth.  We  got  rather  friendly  over  a 
couple  of  cocktails,  Badsworth  and  I.  He  was  getting  rather 


"BUT  STILL!"  277 

sick  of  picture-house  investments.  Said  he  thought  the  boom 
was  spent  and  he  was  going  to  put  his  money  in  oil.  That 
meant  that  he'd  call  in  the  mortgage.  If  he  did,  well,  Sat- 
terthwaite  isn't  quite  out  of  the  wood  yet;  he  could  pay 
the  interest,  but  I  didn't  think  he  could  meet  the  mortgage. 
So  I  had  a  word  with  him." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  I  thought  that  as  a  friend  I  ought  to  tell  Satter- 
thwaite  that  Badsworth  might  call  in  his  mortgage.  To  give 
him  a  chance  to  meet  it,  as  you  see." 

"That  was  very  nice  of  you,"  I  said,  beaming. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  I  wanted  to  break  my  neck  over  Moses. 
I  was  afraid  it  might  give  him  nerves.  And  it  did.  He  was 
fool  enough  to  write  to  Badsworth  about  it.  That,  of  course, 
put  the  wind  up  Badsworth,  who  gave  three  months'  notice 
that  he'd  call  hi  the  mortgage." 

"What  a  pity  you  told  Mr.  Satterthwaite !"  I  said. 

"It  couldn't  be  helped.  I  knew  he'd  come  down  then. 
Well,  as  he  was  coming  down  it  didn't  seem  fair  that  other 
people  to  whom  he  owed  money  should  be  let  down.  You 
know  that  Moses  rents  films  from  other  people,  apart  from 
his  own  producing  company.  So  I  thought  that  the  other 
renters  ought  to  know  that  Badsworth  was  calling  in  his 
money.  To  give  them  a  chance,  you  see.  Of  course,  they 
pressed  Moses  to  settle,  end  August.  Satterthwaite  was 
frantic.  He  asked  me  to  call  on  Badsworth,  but  when  I  went 
to  see  Badsworth,  wanting  to  help  Moses  all  I  could,  I  didn't 
think  it  fair  to  Badsworth  that  he  shouldn't  know  that  the 
renters  were  on  Moses  like  a  pack  of  hounds.  You  see, 
Badsworth  might  have  been  let  down." 

"Poor  Mr.  Satterthwaite,"  I  said.  "They  were  on  him  all 
together,  then?" 

"Yes.  Well,  as  he  had  to  go  down,  and  it  wasn't  known 
yet,  except  by  me,  I  thought  I  might  as  well  sell  a  few 
shares  in  his  exhibiting  company.  If  he  smashed,  I  scooped 
it.  And  he  did." 

He  looked  at  me  triumphantly,  feeling  very  clever  and 
technical,  I  suppose,  as  men  do  when  they  talk  to  women  of 


278  URSULA   TRENT 

things  they  don't  understand.    Then  I  began  to  work  out 
the  affair  in  my  own  language,  while  Julian  smiled  at  me. 
"But  then,  Julian,  if  you  hadn't  told  Mr.  Satterthwaite  that 
Mr.  Badsworth  was  going  to  call  his  money  in,  Mr.  Bads- 
worth  perhaps  wouldn't  have  pressed  the  mortgage." 
"Perhaps  not.    Still,  that's  how  it  happened." 
"Yes,  I  see.    But  why  did  you  tell  the  renters  that  Mr. 
Badsworth  was  going  to  call  his  money  in?" 
"It  was  only  fair." 

"But  if  you  hadn't  told  them  they  wouldn't  have  pressed." 
"No,  of  course.    But  it  couldn't  be  helped." 
I  thought  for  a  minute.     Then  horror  came  over  me. 
'*  Julian !   You  didn't  want  those  shares  to  go  down,  did  you  ? ' ' 
"Well,  of  course  I  made  a  bit  if  they  did." 
"But  then  ...  Oh,  Julian,  it's  incredible!    Oh,  I  see  it! 
You  frightened  Mr.  Satterthwaite  until  he  frightened  Mr. 
Badsworth.     And  then  you  turned  the  renters  upon  Mr.  Sat- 
terthwaite by  telling  them  that  Mr.  Badsworth  was  taking 
his  money  out.     It's  you  who  smashed  Mr.  Satterthwaite." 
"Oh,"  said  Julian,  "I  shouldn't  put  it  like  that." 
"What  would  have  happened  if  you'd  done  nothing?" 
"I  don't  know.    Oh,  damn  it  all!    One  might  think  I  was 
unfriendly  to  poor  old  Moses.     Haven't  I  done  all  I  could? 
Didn't  I  get  Lydbrook  to  put  him  on  his  legs  again?" 
"After  smashing  him  and  making  your  profit." 
"Oh,  you  women!    You  get  these  fancy  ideas  into  yoiu; 
head.    You  know  nothing  about  business." 

"Perhaps  not.  Business  sounds  like  murder.  Julian,  just 
answer  me  this,  What  would  have  happened  if  you'd  let  this 
alone?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Would  you  have  sold  those  shares?" 
"Oh,  damn!  .  .  ." 

"Would  you  have  made  fourteen  hundred  pounds  if  Mr. 
Satterthwaite  hadn't  smashed?"    He  was  silent.    "Answer 
me,  Julian.    We've  had  enough  trouble  to-day." 
"No,  I  suppose  I  wouldn't." 
J'Then  it  paid  you  to  smash  him?"    He  did  not  reply,  and 


"BUT  STILL1"  279 

I  got  up.  "You  smashed  him  on  purpose  to  make  fourteen 
hundred  pounds."  He  stepped  toward  me.  "Don't  touch 
me.  I  can  hardly  believe  it." 

"Look  here,"  he  blustered;  "don't  be  a  fool.  I've  got  to 
make  money  to  keep  you." 

"Not  that  way,"  I  replied,  weakly.  We're  bound  to  be 
weak  before  our  keepers. 

"Well,  what  do  you  suggest?  A  villa  in  Brixton?  How  do 
you  think  I  pay  for  your  frocks?  Not  out  of  my  wretched 
salary  and  commission."  In  a  sentimental  voice  he  added: 
"Do  you  think  I  like  doing  these  things?  I  have  to  do  them 
...  for  you." 

I  backed  two  or  three  steps.  "How  dare  you  say  things 
like  that  to  me!  Did  I  make  a  bargain  with  you  when  you 
took  me  away?  I  didn't  want  money.  I  wanted  only  you." 

"You're  very  expensive." 

I  gasped  at  this  caddishness.  I  was  injured  rather  than 
angry,  yet  half  guilty.  Perhaps  I  was  extravagant.  I  almost 
relented,  and  understood  how  women  go  on  loving  forgers 
and  thieves.  But  he  lost  his  advantage  by  a  chance  remark. 

"Anyhow,  I  put  Moses  on  his  legs  again.  Poor  old  Moses! 
He  does  what  he  can.  He's  got  me  an  order  to  dress  his  new 
society  drama." 

Then  I  lost  my  head.  I  screamed  at  him.  He  was  a  ghoul, 
a  vampire.  Not  only  had  he  wrecked  the  kind  old  man 
for  a  paltry  sum,  but  he'd  helped  him  up  for  the  sake  of  an- 
other advantage,  for  the  sake  of  the  money  of  the  man  heM 
smashed.  And  he'd  not  only  taken  that;  he'd  taken  Satter- 
thwaite's  gratitude.  He  protested,  but  I  couldn't  stop.  He 
was  incredibly  vile  to  me,  and  I  wanted  to  tell  him  so.  Mean, 
ratlike.  He  let  me  talk  to  the  end,  when  I  was  exhausted 
and  nearly  crying.  Then  I  saw  a  light  in  his  eyes;  he  came 
toward  me  round  the  table.  That  terrified  and  incensed  me 
still  more,  for  I  understood  that  he  was  now  going  to  conquer 
me  by  caresses,  to  inflame  my  passions  until  my  reason  was 
obscured.  Three  times  we  went  round  that  table,  I  panting, 
defying  him.  "Let  me  alone.  Beast!  I  hate  you.  Don't 
dare  to  touch  me."  And  he,  silent,  with  clenched  teeth  and 


280  URSULA   TRENT 

shining  eyes,  followed  me.  I  grew  fascinated.  This  man 
had  been  tracking  me  like  this  round  and  round  for  months,  it 
seemed  ...  in  the  end  he'd  get  me.  He'd  seize  me.  His  hated 
kisses  would  overcome  me.  And  still  we  went  round  the  table. 
Suddenly  he  leaped  on  the  table  and  made  for  me.  I  can 
still  hear  my  scream.  I  eluded  him,  ran  to  the  door,  upsetting 
a  chair  in  his  way.  I  ran  down  the  stairs,  hatless,  fortunately 
away  from  Piccadilly,  and  stopped  at  last  on  the  other  side 
of  Berkeley  Square,  breathing  hard,  nearly  crying.  It  was 
nearly  dark  and  nobody  noticed  me.  Two  taxi  drivers  came 
and  looked  at  me  for  a  little  while  as  I  held  on  to  the  railings 
of  the  Square.  Then  one  of  them  said,  "She's  tight,"  and 
they  went  away. 

m 

I  didn't  know  what  to  do.  I  walked  a  long  way.  I  went 
up  Edgware  Road  and  tried  to  buy  a  hat  just  before  the  shops 
closed.  But  I  had  no  money,  only  Lord  Alfred's  check.  A 
shop  wouldn't  change  that.  What  was  I  going  to  do?  I 
hadn't  even  got  the  penny  halfpenny  that  was  in  my  bag. 
Sleep  somewhere,  anyhow.  Where  could  I  go?  I  was  some- 
where near  Maida  Vale.  I  hesitated  near  a  big  public  house, 
the  Warrington  Hotel,  I  think.  There  were  lots  of  people  in 
the  saloon  bar.  I  couldn't  go  in  there.  So  I  walked  away, 
and  such  is  the  power  of  habit  that  I  went  southwest.  I 
wondered  if  they  would  take  me  in  at  the  Ritz,  but  I  had  no 
hat.  Perhaps  a  woman  would  sell  me  her  hat.  But  she 
couldn't  change  a  hundred-pound  check.  I  was  frightened, 
too.  I  was  too  near  Dover  Street,  so  I  went  along  Jermyn 
Street.  There  I  had  an  idea.  At  a  certain  hotel  Lord  Alfred 
had  twice  given  a  dinner  party.  They  knew  him. 

The  reception  clerk  hesitated  some  time  before  giving  me 
a  room.  He  said  there  was  only  one  left  in  the  hotel.  Obvi- 
ously he  wondered  why  I  wasn't  wearing  a  hat.  Still,  Lord 
Alfred's  check  and  the  familiar  signature  overcame  him; 
he  accepted  my  story  that  I'd  had  a  motor  accident.  He 
must  have  said  something  to  the  chambermaid,  for  I'd  hardly 
settled  into  my  room  when  she  brought  me  hot  water  and 


"BUT  STILL!"  281 

asked  whether  I'd  like  to  see  the  drawing-room  where  Lord 
Alfred  would  wait.  Or  should  she  show  him  up?  I  don't 
know  what  I  said.  I  was  too  tired  to  mind  what  she  assumed, 
nor  was  I  even  amused  by  the  revelation  of  Lord  Alfred's 
private  life. 

I  stayed  hi  that  hotel  a  fortnight.  I  did  nothing  at  all; 
whenever  I  went  out  I  at  once  turned  south.  I  couldn't  risk 
meeting  people  in  Piccadilly.  I  didn't  know  what  I  was 
going  to  do;  besides,  I  was  not  feeling  well.  I  wondered 
whether  I  was  anaemic.  I  wanted  to  avoid  people,  so  I 
lunched  in  chop  houses  in  Fleet  Street;  I  was  too  tired  to 
think  of  what  I  would  do.  But  I  couldn't  get  away  from 
people.  One  day,  as  I  was  lunching  in  the  Strand,  Frills 
came  in.  I  ought  to  have  known  that  a  newspaper  woman 
would  hang  about  the  Strand.  She  was  very  nice.  Obvi- 
ously she  knew  what  had  happened  and  was  tactful  enough 
to  talk  only  of  the  aristocracy,  but,  though  she  asked  me  no 
questions,  I  must  have  let  out  that  I  was  living  hi  a  hotel. 
I  think  I  said  some  foolish  thing  about  running  out  of  the 
hotel  and  buying  Eve  at  the  bookstall  in  Duke  Street.  Any- 
how, three  days  later,  when  I  was  lying  on  my  bed  in  the 
afternoon,  in  the  last  stage  of  exhaustion,  Julian  came.  I 
didn't  want  to  speak  to  him,  but  I  couldn't  get  out.  He  was 
between  me  and  the  door.  Also,  I  was  so  seedy  that  as  soon 
as  he  pleaded  with  me  I  began  to  cry.  He  profited  by  my 
weakness;  he  took  me  in  his  arms  and  tried  to  make  me  say 
I'd  come  back. 

"I  won't,!  won't,!  won't,"  I  said  again  and  again,cryingall 
the  time.  He  kissed  me.  At  that  I  revolted,  pushed  him  away. 

"Little  Bear!"  cried  Julian,  and  once  more  flung  himself 
upon  his  knees,  buried  his  face  against  me.  Once  more  I  felt 
my  little  boy  needed  me.  Once  more  I  had  to  dry  those  easy, 
appealing  tears.  A  man  who  cries  is  ignoble  and  irresistible. 

"All  right,"  I  said,  at  last,  laying  my  hand  upon  his  hair. 
"Let's  make  a  fresh  start."  I  despised  myself  abominably. 
Faithless,  liar,  practically  thief,  and  I  loved  him  all  the  same. 
That's  loving.  It's  easy  enough  caring  for  an  upright,  hand- 
some, clever  man  who  loves  you,  but  it's  not  love,  not  really. 


282  URSULA   TRENT 

To  love  really,  you  mustn't  care  how  vile,  how  base  is  the 
creature  you  love.  It's  got  to  be  just  he.  So  I  don't  know 
that  I  ought  to  despise  myself.  I  ought  to  envy  myself  for 
loving  like  that.  Suddenly  a  feeling  I  had  experienced  before 
came  over  me  and  I  freed  myself. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked,  afraid  I  was  going  to  repulse  him 
again. 

"I  don't  know.  Don't  touch  me.  I  feel  ill."  Then  I  turned 
away  from  his  perplexed  eyes  and  was  just  hi  time  to  reach 
the  basin,  where  I  was  violently  sick. 

He  was  very  sweet  to  me.  He  washed  my  face  with  water 
and  eau  de  cologne,  and  helped  me  to  the  bed. 

"Don't  look  at  me,"  I  said.  "I  know  I  look  hideous. 
Ah!  it's  horrid  being  sick.  I  wonder  what's  the  matter 
with  me?  I  was  like  that  two  days  ago." 

"Oh!"  he  said,  staring  at  me.  "You  look  rather  queer, 
Little  Bear.  Very  pretty,  of  course,  but  thin  in  the  face." 

"Let  me  alone!"  I  snapped.  I  didn't  want  my  appearance 
criticized  just  then.  I  only  wanted  to  be  comfortable,  to  get 
back  to  the  flat  and  sleep. 

We  went  back.  Julian  insisted  on  my  seeing  a  doctor,  who 
told  me  that  in  another  seven  months  I  would  have  a  child. 
It  was  an  awful  feeling.  What  was  I  going  to  do?  We  couldn't 
marry.  How  could  such  a  thing  have  happened  to  me? 

"Don't  worry,"  said  Julian. 

"How  do  you  mean,  don't  worry!  I'm  going  to  have  a 
child,  and  I'm  not  married.  That's  something  to  worry 
about,  isn't  it?" 

"Well,  you  needn't  have  it,"  he  said,  slyly. 

I  understood  at  once.  In  my  new  world  one  did.  I  don't 
know  why,  but  the  suggestion  enraged  me.  That  sort  of 
thing  wasn't  done. 

"Well,"  said  Julian,  "if  you  won't  you  won't.  We'll  put 
it  out  to  nurse,  and  perhaps  we  can  get  married,  after  all. 
I'll  see  about  it."  He  was  in  a  yielding  mood,  and  very  sweet 
to  me  in  this  extremity  of  my  troubles.  I  sent  Lord  Alfred 
the  seventy-eight  pounds  left  of  his  check.  Once  more  I  was 
wholly  Julian's. 


PART  IV.    TEE  HOUSE  OF  CLOUD 


Chapter  I 
Ripples 


MATERNITY  is  an  experience  one  can't  forget.  I  don't 
mean  merely  from  the  physical  point  of  view;  I'm 
thinking  rather  of  one's  consciousness  of  a  great  event. 
Such  a  little  event,  after  all.  One  that's  happened  millions 
of  millions  of  times.  That  shows  how  important  one  thinks 
oneself  in  the  world;  I  could  laugh  at  myself  as  I  think  of  it. 
One  feels  majestic,  official,  assistant  in  a  sort  of  religious  rite. 
If  one  can  talk  about  it,  one's  friends  are  impressed.  Those 
who  have  had  no  children  are  a  little  sorry  for  one,  and  a 
little  envious.  Those  who  have  had  children  are  faintly 
ghoulish.  You're  going  to  be  put  through  it,  poor  wretch! 

I  didn't  have  that  experience;  being  unmarried,  I  was 
ashamed  and  told  nobody.  Nor  did  Julian,  even  though  I 
discerned  in  him  a  vague  pride  of  fatherhood.  I  mustn't 
laugh  at  men  for  that,  for  we're  quite  as  proud  ourselves,  and 
quite  as  unreasonable.  I  think  that  Julian  was  trying  to 
gain  time.  One  evening  he  said: 

"Very  few  women  are  as  good-looking  after  they've  had  a 
child  as  before." 

"How  can  you  talk  such  nonsense?"  I  asked.  "As  if  you 
didn't  know  .that  nowadays  the  most  run-after  women  are 
the  women  of  thirty-five  with  three  children,  the  girls  being 
nowhere." 

"I  know,"  said  Julian,  "but  it  isn't  for  their  good  looks, 
exactly.  They  dress  better.  So  I  suppose  we  forgive  the 
wear  and  tear."  I  said  nothing. 

I  knew  what  he  was  playing  for.  He  wanted  to  bring  me 
to  his  own  suggestion  that  the  child  should  be  got  rid  of.  I 


286  URSULA   TRENT 

understood  him,  and  I  loved  him  all  the  same.  That's  true 
love. 

But  I  wasn't  going  to  get  rid  of  that  child.  I  knew  that  I 
was  a  fool.  What  should  I  do  when  it  was  born?  Would 
Julian  stick  to  me  and  my  child?  Smash,  as  Isabel  said, 
and  a  worse  smash.  I  couldn't  go  home  with  the  child  as  I 
could  without,  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worst.  I'd  try  to 
keep  it,  I  supposed,  work  for  a  living,  hand  it  over  to  some 
baby  killer  with  twelve  shillings  a  week.  Or  my  people  would 
be  sorry  for  me  and  give  me  an  allowance  to  go  and  live  in 
the  Shetlands  or  Australia.  But  in  spite  of,  all  that,  I  felt 
it  must  be  born.  Julian  never  made  his  suggestion  again, 
but  every  now  and  then  he  hinted  that  the  child  would  be  a 
difficulty.  The  flat  was  too  small  to  house  it.  Where  could 
one  get  another  flat  in  these  days?  It  was  a  dashed  nuisance. 
Of  course  the  kid  would  be  great  fun,  but  it  would  make  a 
hell  of  a  row.  Was  I  out  of  sorts?  My  complexion  was 
very  nice,  but  somehow  he  didn't  like  the  look  of  me. 

I  took  a  malignant  pleasure  in  watching  him  try  to  destroy 
my  child,  my  child.  But  he  shouldn't  destroy  it.  ...  I  don't 
know  why  I  couldn't  bear  the  idea.  Indeed,  by  the  end  of 
October  I  was  growing  absorbed  in  the  child,  fed  for  it, 
exercised  for  it.  It  was  to  be  a  boy  and  be  called  Oswald. 
Why  Oswald  I  don't  know,  for  I  never  really  loved  Oswald. 
Perhaps  my  inner  being  revolted  against  the  obvious  name 
of  Julian.  For  I  hated  the  Julian  I  loved;  I  knew  that  I'd 
lost  the  man  I'd  held.  My  child  must  not  evermore  remind 
me  of  him.  Did  I  love  Julian  then?  I  don't  know.  I  felt 
I  didn't  know  how;  I  felt  Sadie.  Oh,  he  was  sweet  and 
clever.  He  had  appointments  at  half  past  six,  which  pre- 
vented him  from  coming  home.  That  didn't  point  to  Sadie. 
Now  and  then  he  had  to  see  a  man  at  a  theater  in  the  evening 
about  frocks.  And  that  didn't  point  to  Sadie.  Nothing 
and  everything  pointed  to  Sadie.  I  can't  explain  how  we 
women  feel  these  things.  The  man  seems  normal,  but  there's 
something  hi  his  voice,  a  change  in  the  things  he  says;  he's 
more  elaborate  with  us;  he  advertises  his  movements  unduly; 
his  life  is  magnificently  open.  And  the  more  he  convinces 


RIPPLES  287 

us  that  he  is  faithful,  the  more  we  know  that  he  is  not.  I 
don't  mean  the  nonsense  about  feminine  intuition.  It  isn't 
that.  It's  precise  little  things;  a  sudden  liking  for  something 
he  didn't  like  before — pictures,  the  open  air,  exercise;  or  it's 
costume,  such  as  a  growing  habit  of  wearing  blue  suits  or  a 
morning  coat.  Some  woman  likes  pictures  or  the  open  air, 
or  a  morning  coat.  We  know  without  knowing;  we  add  up 
and  add  up.  We  sit  down,  thinking  about  it.  We  establish 
statistics  of  the  events  of  a  week.  We  remember  something 
that  a  woman  said  about  somebody  else  a  year  ago;  we  con- 
nect. Oh,  it's  no  small  job  deceiving  a  woman  that  loves  a 
man.  There's  only  one  way,  and  that  is  to  do  it  under  her 
nose,  in  her  presence.  The  only  thing  she  can't  see  is  the 
obvious.  But  that  requires  audacity  as  well  as  technic. 

I  didn't  make  a  scene.  I  knew  it  all  the  time.  He  hadn't 
given  up  Sadie.  He  was  seeing  her.  He  even  mentioned  her 
to  me,  and  I  knew  that  he  mentioned  her  because  he  knew 
that  I'd  think  it  strange  if  he  didn't  mention  her.  Thus,  by 
mentioning  her  he  thought  that  I  should  take  the  reference 
as  natural.  But  of  course  I  knew  that  his  truthtelling  was 
a  lie.  It  is  inconceivable,  but  I  didn't  care.  I  still  loved  him 
and  I  didn't  love  my  child,  but  I  knew  him,  while  my  child 
was  new.  I  was  still  young  enough  to  be  more  interested  hi 
adventure  than  in  memory. 


I  went  to  lunch  with  Lord  Alfred.  He  wanted  to  see  me, 
he  said.  He  looked  rather  funny  at  lunch,  very  pink,  and 
twisted  his  yellow  mustache  very  often,  as  if  he  were  going 
to  say  something  embarrassing.  The  more  he  talked  about 
plays  and  racing,  the  more  I  realized  that  he  was  going  to 
say  something  intimate.  He  ate  and  drank  a  great  deal,  and 
only  after  coffee  did  he  remark,  blushing,  "Miss  Trent!" 

I  started,  but  somehow  I  was  able  to  sham.  "How  do 
you  mean,  Miss  Trent?"  I  said,  but  I  know  I  blushed. 

"Now  don't  be  silly,  Little  Bear.  You  know  I'm  a  pal. 
It's  no  use  wriggling.  Two  davs  ago,  at  a  dance,  I  had  a 


288  URSULA   TRENT 

talk  with  a  lady  called  Mrs.  Osmaston.  You  know  her,  don't 
you?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "but  what's  it  got  to  do  with  me?" 

"Everything,  Little  Bear.     I  know  all  about  you." 

"How  could  Isabel  be  such  a  sneak!" 

"Your  sister's  not  a  sneak.  I  wormed  it  out  of  her.  She 
seemed  interested  hi  the  theatrical  crowd,  and  so  I  talked  a 
bit.  The  dance  was  given  by  the  Duchess  of  Wiltshire;  so, 
of  course,  the  champagne  was  of  the  cheapest.  Heavens !  that 
ducal  champagne !  I'll  never  drink  fizz  except  at  a  profiteer's 
in  future.  But  never  mind  that.  That  champagne  worked. 
I  had  to  drown  it  in  words.  So  we  got  talking  of  you." 

"And  Isabel  gave  me  away ! " 

"No.  She  spotted  who  you  were  when  I  talked  about 
Quin  and  his  girl.  How  you  women  jump  at  things,  I  don't 
know.  In  the  end  she  asked  me  to  help  you." 

"Well,  you've  always  helped  me,"  I  said,  more  gently. 

"Not  in  the  way  she  means.  I've  lent  you  your  cab  fare 
when  you  wanted  it,  but  I've  never  tried  to  get  you  out  of 
all  this." 

"Why  didn't  you?" 

"I  don't  know.  You  seemed  to  be  rubbing  along  like  the 
other  girls." 

"And  now  you  find  out  that  I'm  one  of  your  sort,  you  feel 
different?" 

"Now,  Little  Bear,  don't  be  sarcastic.  I'm  not  clever 
enough  to  spar  with  you.  What  I  mean  is  sort  of  ...  well, 
you're  not  like  the  others.  Sadie  and  Ninette  and  all  that 
push.  You're  .  .  ." 

"A  sea  anemone?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.    Make  it  a  rose." 

I  laughed  at  his  cumbrous  gallantry.  "Never  mind  sea 
anemones.  Goon.  What  do  you  want  to  do?  Send  me  home 
to  mamma?" 

"You  might  do  worse.  I  met  Lady  Trent  once.  I  forget 
where.  Nice  old  lady,  with  eyes  like  yours.  She  wouldn't 
be  hard  on  you.  Mrs.  Osmaston  told  me  your  people  were 
sort  of  hazy  about  the  way  you're  living." 


RIPPLES  289 

"Yes.  But  they  know  I  was  a  manicurist;  that  I've  been 
tipped." 

"That  was  a  long  time  ago,"  said  Lord  Alfred.  "I  mean 
to  say,  you've  reformed.  No,  I  don't  mean  that  exactly. 
You  know  what  I  mean.  Anyhow,  why  don't  you  chuck  it? 
You're  not  so  keen  on  your  fellow  as  you  were." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"I  don't  exactly  know.  Only  those  things  wear  off  in 
time,  don't  they?" 

I  paused.  He  was  right.  Those  things  wore  off,  and  I 
supposed  I  could  stick  it  in  the  country.  Then  I  remembered 
the  child. 

"Look  here,"  I  said,  "you're  awfully  good  to  me,  but  I've 
got  to  tell  you  something.  Don't  let  it  go  any  farther  till 
it's  got  to,  but  I'm  going  to  have  a  child." 

"Lor'!"  said  Lord  Alfred.  After  a  pause:  "You're  in  a 
bit  of  a  hole." 

"  I  know.    Let  me  sit  in  my  hole.   You  can't  do  anything." 

"Oh  yes,  I  can!  I  can  see  that  your  kid  finds  some  one 
to  look  after  it  at  my  place  at  Walmer,  and  get  it  educated, 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  but  I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean 
what's  to  become  of  you?" 

I  touched  the  back  of  his  hand  while  no  one  was  looking. 
"You're  a  dear,"  I  said.  "You  can't  do  anything,  really." 

"Suppose  I  can't.  I  could  marry  you,  of  course,  but  it's 
against  my  principles.  Still,  if  you  think  that  would  be  any 
good,  what  about  it?" 

I  laughed.  "No,  I  won't  take  advantage  of  you.  Mind 
you,  I  wouldn't  make  you  any  unhappier  than  anybody  else, 
but  it  wouldn't  be  quite  fair." 

"Well,  that's  that,"  he  said,  with  immense  relief.  He 
blew.  "What  an  escape!  But  look  here,  Little  Bear,  as  I 
see  it,  you  can't  go  home.  They'd  misunderstand  you. 
I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do.  I'll  see  to  it.  You  can  go  to  Italy 
or  China  or  somewhere,  as  companion  to  a  lady.  I'll  find  a 
woman  to  adopt  the  kid;  that's  better  than  putting  it  at 
Walmer,  where  the  facts  'd  come  out.  When  you  come 
back,  you  can  go  home." 


290  URSULA   TRENT 

"No,  thank  you,  I  won't  do  it." 

We  walked  out  together.  Lord  Alfred  persistently  talked 
of  sending  me  home.  Men  always  want  to  send  girls  home. 
We  talked  about  it  all  the  way.  Lord  Alfred  had  illusions 
about  home.  He  asked  me  to  think  of  mamma.  He  assured 
me  I'd  get  married.  The  liftman  having  disappeared,  we. 
walked  up  the  stairs,  Lord  Alfred  still  advocating  the  home. 
On  our  landing  we  paused. 

"Look  here,  Little  Bear,"  he  said,  "I  knew  you  were  a 
silly  kid.  All  women  are.  But  you're  about  the  limit.  Once 
more,  let  me  lose  it  for  you.  You'll  have  no  bother." 

"No,  it's  very  good  of  you,  but  I  won't." 

He  sighed.  "Well  then,  since  you  must  have  it,  you  must. 
When  it's  born  I'D  have  it  looked  after,  as  I  told  you,  at 
Walmer,  and  you  won't  need  to  hear  any  more  about  it 
unless  you  want  to.  And  if  you  like,  if  you're  fed  up  with 
Quin,  I'd  better  start  you  in  a  hat  shop  or  something.  Get 
you  your  own  business.  Wouldn't  cost  more  than  a  thousand 
or  two.  Oh,"  he  added,  interrupting  me,  "it  ain't  charity. 
I  shaD  expect  seven  per  cent  out  of  it." 

I  took  his  fat,  pink  cheeks  between  my  hands,  drew  his 
head  down  and  kissed  him.  I  was  too  moved  to  speak,  and 
went  into  the  flat,  slamming  the  door  hi  his  face  so  that  he 
should  not  see  me  crying.  Some  men  upset  one  by  their 
decency. 

in 

And  life  went  on.  Still  I  lunched  with  people,  and  met 
people,  the  same  people.  Still  we  talked  of  the  club  with  the 
best  floor,  and  the  best  band;  still  we  exchanged  jokes  about 
America  going  dry;  still  the  affairs  of  Ida  Quin,  of  Lockwood, 
Appleford  and  Tootoo,  of  Mr.  Pawlett  and  Christine,  were 
discussed.  People  met,  people  came  together,  parted,  were 
betrayed.  Money  was  put  into  things  which  came  off,  or 
which  didn't;  So-and-so  got  the  bird  at  a  music  hall.  It 
was  like  living  inside  a  whirligig.  Seldom  a  new  face,  always 
the  same  figures  revolving  hi  a  complicated  dance  of  death. 


RIPPLES  291 

while  I  went  lonely  and  unhappy,  yet  elated  by  my  burden 
of  life. 

Incidents  detach  themselves.  Satterthwaite  was  doing 
very  well  now.  Curbed  by  his  new  partners,  he  was  develop- 
ing slowly;  luck  brought  him  a  new  film  on  "the  social  evil," 
which  was  drawing  every  puritan  and  moralist  in  the  country. 
Lord  Alfred  was  very  pleased;  he  had  a  great  deal  of  money, 
but  all  the  same  he  liked  to  put  it  into  successful  things,  and 
Satterthwaite  already  promised  a  dividend  of  fifteen  per  cent. 
But  the  old  man  was  very  tribal.  Though  he  boasted  of  the 
big  things  he  was  going  to  do  in  the  cinema  world,  he  never 
forgot  that  it  was  Julian  had  helped  him.  He  came  to  see 
me  now  and  then,  to  talk  of  his  plans. 

"It's  funny,  Mrs.  Quin,"  he  remarked  one  day,  "some  go 
up  and  some  go  down." 

"As  on  the  wheel  of  Fortune,"  I  said. 

"What's  the  wheel  of  Fortune?" 

"Tennyson.  'Turn,  Fortune,  turn  thy  wheel . . .'  I  forget 
the  rest." 

"Tennyson?  That's  an  ideer,  Mrs.  Quin.  The  audience 
has  heard  of  Tennyson.  Tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  have  a 
moral  film  to  show  that  money  ain't  happiness.  Shove  some 
Tennyson  on  the  screen  when  convenient.  Tennyson! 
That's  tony;  but  not  too  tony." 

He  went  on  talking  of  his  family.  Leopold  was  doing 
wonderfully  in  Chicago.  He  would  have  helped  his  old 
father  if  it  hadn't  been  that,  somehow,  the  cable  wasn't 
delivered  hi  time.  Esther  had  completely  reformed,  had 
given  up  socialism  and  married  a  man  who  ran  fourteen  fish 
shops  in  the  East  End. 

"Course,  they  don't  live  there,"  said  Satterthwaite,  mag- 
nificently. "They've  got  a  house  in  Belsize  Park,  and  a 
booffay  nearly  as  big  as  mine.  Ah!  If  it  weren't  for 
Reuben.  That  religion,  Mrs.  Quin,  it's  a  good  thing — I  got 
nothing  against  it — but  it  don't  pay.  Not  as  a  rule.  Of 
course,  there  was  Prophet  Dowie,  and  I  suppose  Moody  and 
Sankey  didn't  do  so  badly,  but  it's  chancy,  Mrs.  Quin,  very 
chancy."  I  laughed.  "I  don't  know  why  you  laugh  at  me. 


292  URSULA   TRENT 

Still,  it  doesn't  matter.  I  won't  forget  what  you  did  for  me. 
All  along  of  that,  I'll  be  able  to  afford  Reuben  becoming  a 
rabbi." 

I  did  not  undeceive  him.  I  had  to  let  him  go  on,  thanking 
me,  blessing  Julian,  knowing  all  the  time  that  Julian  had 
broken  him  for  his  own  advantage,  and  again  for  his  own 
advantage  set  him  up  once  more.  One  can't  always  tell  the 
truth. 

.  At  that  time  we  had  another  excitement,  for  Tootoo  at 
last  married  Appleford.  The  wedding  was  at  St.  Anne's, 
Soho;  our  set  came,  very  grave,  and  trying  to  find  their  way 
in  the  prayer  book.  Karl  Meerbrook  had  to  be  restrained 
from  talking  aloud  because  the  organist's  rendering  of  "O 

,  Perfect  Love"  irritated  him.  I  remember  Tootoo's  small, 
trim  back  as  she  knelt  by  the  side  of  Mr.  Appleford,  his  sleek 
hair,  and  the  voice  of  the  clergyman  mixing  steadily  with 
Meerbrook's  grumbles  of:  "Now!  Detach!  Ah,  he  won't 
do  it  ...  Oh,  my!  oh,  my!" 

"Don't  talk,  Mr.  Meerbrook,"  I  whispered.  I  thought 
the  organ  was  all  right.  But  no!  Behind  me  a  hoarse 
whisper:  "More  wind!  more  wind!  .  .  .  Oh,  you  devil!"  It 
was  a  comic  wedding.  We  went  into  the  vestry  to  kiss  and 
congratulate  Tootoo,  one  of  the  foremost  being  Ninette,  who 
came  with  her  husband;  Arf  a  Mo'  behaved  very  badly. 
Assisted  by  Mr.  Eaton,  a  young  airman,  he  converted  the 
vestry  into  an  abode  of  love.  They  both  kissed  me;  Lord 
Alfred  kissed  Frills.  Everybody  kissed,  as  one  does  in  silly 
moods.  Finally  Arf  a  Mo'  forced  us  to  join  hands  with  The 
Woman,  the  two  Freelands,  our  other  friends,  and  various 
people  we  didn't  know,  and  to  dance  wildly  round  the  be- 
wildered pair.  Ninette,  whom  weddings  made  sentimental, 
wept;  she  repulsed  her  consoling  husband,  and  was  furious 
when  Arf  a  Mo'  whispered  too  loudly  to  Ida  Quin  that  what 
Ninette  wanted  from  Roderick  was  a  thick  ear.  At  last  the 
clergyman,  very  smooth,  decided  to  smile  and  to  pat  us  all 
on  the  back,  meanwhile  pushing  us  out  of  the  vestry.  "  These 
theatrical  weddings ! "  he  said,  charitably,  as  he  drove  me  out. 
And  life  went  on.  Strong  rumors  started  that  Mrs.  Free- 


RIPPLES  293 

land  was  going  to  divorce  her  husband.  I  had  often  met 
smart  young  Bob  Freeland,  and  he'd  been  audacious  to  me. 
It  appeared  that  he  had  succeeded  Bill  Gordon  hi  the  affec- 
tions of  The  Woman,  and  that  his  wife  had  found  it  out. 
She  hesitated  a  long  time  between  doing  the  same,  which 
would  have  produced  a  really  Bohemian  menage;  rumor 
said  that  she  was  waiting  for  co-respondents  to  accumulate, 
in  which  case  her  divorce  would  have  been  much  smarter. 
Soon  after  he  was  served  with  a  writ,  Bob  Freeland  tried  to 
commit  suicide  by  throwing  himself  into  the  Thames.  But 
as  he  did  it  off  the?  Embankment  at  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, he  can't  have  meant  business.  He  was  fished  out,  and 
photographed  by  the  Daily  Mirror.  Mrs.  Freeland  appeared 
at  the  police  court  and  got  him  off.  She  was  photographed 
by  the  Daily  Sketch.  It  was  a  very  successful  affair,  and  we 
all  enjoyed  it  very  much.  The  divorce  case  was  adjourned. 
All  through  this  I  was  asking  myself  what  would  happen 
to  me  and  my  child.  It  was  to  be  born  at  the  end  of  April, 
and  though  I  often  wondered  what  I  should  do,  I  was  becom- 
ing lymphatic.  Perhaps  I  felt  that  somebody  would  help  me. 
Perhaps  I  was  still  too  secure.  As  one  of  the  Trents,  happen 
what  might,  I  must  be  all  right.  Perhaps  it  was  merely 
benevolent  nature  keeping  me  quiet  for  my  child's  good. 
Anyhow,  I  didn't  worry  much.  I  slept  a  lot.  I  was  very 
good-tempered.  I  was  not  exacting.  Indeed,  at  that  time 
I  was  happy.  Life  didn't  matter.  That  is  perhaps  the  best 
thing  life  can  do  for  a  human  being. 


Chapter  II 
Facing  It  Out 


TT  was  no  surprise  to  me  that  Julian  should  so  soon  give  up 
•I.  Sadie.  I  think  I  would  have  known  it  without  indications 
other  than  those  secret  ones  arising  from  my  instinct.  Some- 
how, in  November,  I  found  him  more  attentive.  He  wanted 
to  know  how  I  felt,  whether  I  wanted  anything.  He  brought 
me  a  large  piece  of  flowered  damask,  which  I  had  admired 
in  a  cushion  shop.  Gifts!  Men  make  us  presents  as  a  rule 
when  they  have  deceived  us,  because  they  feel  remorseful; 
the  wife  is  wise  who  grows  suspicious  when  suddenly  her 
husband  gives  her  a  diamond  pendant.  I  had  been  told  of 
that  indication.  But  surely  Julian  had  not  already  entered 
into  another  adventure !  Rather,  he  was  trying  to  put  things 
right.  The  piece  of  damask  told  me  that  it  was  all  over 
with  Sadie  and  that  he  wanted  to  begin  again  where  we'd 
left  off. 

Well,  call  me  undignified  if  you  like,  but  I  felt  so  ill,  so 
lonely,  that  I  accepted  him.  It  wasn't  that  I  wanted  his 
caresses  much,  but  I  wanted  him  to  talk,  to  smile,  to  be  my 
friend.  If  I  hadn't  been  as  I  was,  I  suppose  I  should  have 
developed  energy  enough  to  leave  him  for  good.  But  when 
a  woman  is  about  to  become  a  mother  she  needs  a  man 
badly.  The  fact  of  his  being  there  is  a  sort  of  protection,  an 
insurance.  I  don't  mean  that  I  wanted  somebody  to  keep 
my  child;  it  was  vaguer  than  that;  I  just  wanted  somebody. 
So,  little  by  little,  I  suppose  I  should  have  forgotten  Sadie, 
should  have  buried  that  memory  of  unfaithfulness  under  the 
garment  of  tolerance  that  every  woman  packs  away  with  her 
wedding  gown,  to  take  out  when  the  colossus  crashes  on  his 


FACING  IT  OUT  295 

feet  of  clay,  to  cover  him  with  it,  and  pretend  that  underneath 
lies  the  image  of  old. 

I  should  have  forgotten.  Have  I  not  half  forgotten  the 
awful  day  when  mamma,  who's  very  Victorian,  lost  her 
temper  with  me  and  beat  me  with  her  shoe  until  I  bled?  I 
only  half  remember,  and  I  love  her  all  the  same.  I  should 
have  not  forgotten,  but  remembered  mistily,  and  come  to 
love  him  again  if  he  let  me. 

But  Sadie  didn't  let  me.  Somebody  told  me  that  she  was 
sailing  for  America  in  a  few  days.  She  had  a  job  there,  in 
Arizona.  That  concorded  with  the  piece  of  damask,  and  I 
was  immensely  glad  to  think  that  she  was  going.  It  wasn  t 
that  I  feared  her;  what  was  over  was  over,  but  it  would  be 
easier  to  forget  a  woman  hi  another  continent.  I  knew  the 
date  of  her  sailing,  and  a  sense  of  the  picturesque  made  me 
suggest  a  little  dinner  on  the  night,  to  which  we  would  ask 
only  such  friends  as  didn't  care  what  they  drank  or  what 
they  said.  Julian  agreed.  For  a  moment  it  annoyed  me 
that  he  should  agree  so  easily;  he  didn't  mourn  her  even  on 
the  day  of  her  sailing.  Would  he  mourn  me  on  the  day  of 
my  inevitable  sailing  to  an  unknown  shore?  Almost  at  once 
I  ceased  to  care,  for  a  woman,  at  bottom,  always  believes 
that  he  will  mourn  on  the  day  of  her  sailing,  however  lightly 
he  may  take  the  departure  of  another. 


The  little  dinner  did  not  take  place.  Among  my  letters, 
that  morning,  came  one  from  Sadie.  I  read  it  twice,  hardly 
understanding  it.  Then,  quietly,  I  put  it  away,  saying 
nothing  to  Julian,  who,  across  the  table,  phlegmatically 
glanced  at  the  Daily  Mail  and  munched  eggs  and  bacon. 
I  said  hardly  anything.  Not  only  was  the  revelation  too 
awful,  but  the  way  in  which  it  was  put!  Sadie  didn't  talk 
like  that.  She  wasn't  coarse  or  vulgar,  beyond  an  oath  or 
two.  It  seemed  as  if  she  had  thought  out  the  terms  of  her 
letter  to  hurt  me,  to  outrage  me  all  she  could. 


296  URSULA   TRENT 

You  silly,  moon-faced  kid,  I  suppose  you  think  you've  got  your 
dandy  fellow  roped!  I  suppose  you  think  you've  taught  him  to  be- 
have when  the  wife's  in  the  country,  and  that  the  rest  of  his  life 
he'll  be  as  good  as  gold,  just  because  you  gave  him  the  what-for 
with  the  chill  off!  Why  you  think  he'd  stick  to  a  bit  of  pastry  like 
you  more  than  to  anybody  else,  I  don't  know.  But  then  you  always 
were  stuck  up.  So  let  me  give  you  a  tip,  as  a  pal:  you  keep  your 
eye  on  your  dandy  fellow.  Don't  you  think  he's  going  to  live  like 
a  curate  just  because  I'm  out  of  the  way;  it  isn't  his  nature.  If 
you  don't  believe  me  you  ask  Maud  Freeland  why  she  stopped  her 
divorce.  It  wasn't  because  she  hadn't  got  cause.  No  fear!  It  was 
because  Maudie  knew  that  there  might  be  a  bit  of  an  account 
against  her  if  the  King's  Proctor  found  out  about  her  and  your 
Julian.  You  ask  her,  suddenly,  if  you  don't  believe  me,  and  you'll 
see,  unless  you're  too  much  of  a  worm  to  risk  it.  You  ask  Christine 
who  she  was  with  before  she  was  handed  over  to  Pawlett.  You 
bet  Julian  knew  a  bit  about  Christine  before  he  landed  her  on 
Pawlett.  A  bit  of  fluff  like  her  didn't  say  no  to  Julian,  who's  a 
beauty,  I'll  say  that  for  him.  But  there,  he  never  can  keep  away 
when  he  sees  a  bit  of  skirt.  He  couldn't  even  let  poor  little  Frills 
alone.  She  couldn't  say  no.  To  say  nothing  about  the  two  women 
on  the  first  floor.  Under  your  very  feet,  you  juggins!  You  make 
me  sick!  I  suppose  you'll  stick  to  him,  if  you  don't  mind  my 
leavings,  if  you  don't  mind  those  of  the  rest  of  the  town. 

SADIE. 

Rather  dully  I  went  out  at  the  usual  time,  walked  along  the 
usual  Piccadilly.  I  read  the  letter  under  the  arches  of 
the  Ritz,  but  it  was  an  inconvenient  place,  so  I  went  into 
Stewart's  to  eat  cakes  and  read  it  again.  I  don't  think  I 
quite  grasped  it  for  a  couple  of  hours.  In  the  afternoon  I 
tried  to  make  plans.  I  was  past  misery  and  only  wanted  to 
get  away.  I'd  no  reason  to  doubt  Sadie,  and,  anyhow,  she 
alone  was  cause  enough.  But  my  purpose  hardened,  not  so 
much  because  I  believed  all  this  as  because  Julian  was  irrev- 
ocably soiled  by  living  in  such  a  world,  in  a  world  where 
such  imputations  against  him  might  be  true.  At  four  o'clock 
I  was  clear  that  I  must  go.  I  would  ask  Lord  Alfred  for  those 
seventy-eight  pounds  I  returned  him.  I  supposed  he'd  help 
me  through  until  my  child  came,  and  then  I'd  see.  He 


FACING  IT  OUT  297 

could  set  me  up  as  a  milliner,  or  marry  me,  or  send  me  home. 
I  didn't  care.  I  began  to  pack.  It  was  exhausting,  having 
to  bend  down  again  and  again  to  pick  up  things.  There 
were  such  lots  of  oddments — silver  pin  trays,  handkerchief 
boxes,  nightgown  cases,  razors  for  the  under  arm,  and 
bottles  and  bottles.  At  last  I  upset  a  bottle  of  liquid  blacking 
over  three  cre"pe-de-Chine  chemises,  and  burst  into  tears. 
Searching  for  a  handkerchief  in  the  trunk,  I  got  my  fingers 
into  the  blacking,  wiped  my  eyes,  thus  transferring  much  of 
the  black  liquid  to  my  face.  I  saw  myself  in  the  looking- 
glass  and  sobbed. 

Then  Julian  came  in.  He  stared  at  my  wet  and  blackened 
face. 

"Good  heavens!    What's  the  matter,  Little  Bear?" 

"I'm  going,"  I  said,  unsteadily. 

"Going?    Why?" 

I  got  up,  handed  him  the  letter.  As  he  read  it  my  tears 
stopped  and  rage  rose  in  me.  He  read  it  to  the  end,  seemed 
quite  cool,  then  handed  it  back. 

"That's  all  rot." 

"Is  it?  How  long  have  you  known  the  people  Sadie  talks 
about?" 

"What's  that?" 

"Answer  my  question." 

"Oh,  four  or  five  years." 

"Who  were  you  living  with  before  you  took  up  with  me? 
With  those  women?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  deny  that  before  I  met  you  I  behaved  like 
other  men." 

He  did  not  deny  the  names,  so  I  said,  "And  you  ask 
me  to  believe  that  for  a  whole  year  you've  been  going 
about  with  your  former  mistresses  and  kept  faith  with 
me?" 

He  blustered,  but  he  was  just  a  moment  too  late.  He 
had  hesitated;  I  had  seen  him  calculate.  He  must  have 
understood  that,  for  he  suddenly  decided  to  ask  for 
forgiveness. 

"Well,  yes,  since  you  will  have  it.    It  isn't  true,  all  this, 


298  URSULA   TRENT 

but  some  of  it,  yes.  Oh,  Little  Bear,  you  don't  under- 
stand." 

"No." 

"You  don't  know  how  weak  one  is.  One  gets  en- 
tangled." 

"/  don't,"  I  said,  with  an  air  of  rectitude. 

"It  isn't  the  same  thing.  A  man  slips  into  these  things. 
They  don't  mean  much  to  him." 

"I  suppose  I  didn't  mean  much  to  you?" 

"You're  the  only  woman  I  ever  loved." 

I  don't  know  why,  but  that  enraged  me.  Perhaps  because 
it  was  a  formula.  I  lost  my  temper. 

"Don't  talk  to  me.  Don't  lie  to  me.  You've  done  nothing 
but  lie  to  me  for  a  year,  done  nothing  but  make  me  a  laughing- 
stock. It's  because  of  you  that  a  woman  like  Sadie  can  insult 
me  and  crow  over  me.  You  found  me  when  I  was  free,  and 
you've  dragged  me  down,  ruined  me.  It's  because  of  you 
that  I've  got  to  go  out  into  the  world  with  your  child.  How 
many  other  women  have  you  treated  like  that,  you  devil? 
You  beast!  How  many  other  girls  have  you  made  the  joke 
of  your  friends?  Except  those  you've  sold  to  rich  men?" 
He  moved  toward  me.  "Don't  touch  me.  If  you  dare  to 
touch  me,  I'll  scream,  I'll  hit  you."  He  came  nearer.  "If 
you  dare  to  touch  me  I'll  kill  you,  you  beast ! "  As  his  hand 
moved  I  looked  round  for  a  weapon.  But  he  seized  me  by 
both  arms  and  tried  to  draw  me  toward  him.  Heaven  knows 
what  he  wanted  me  for.  My  memories  become  vague.  Rage 
clouded  my  brain.  I  was  struggling  with  him,  trying  to  keep 
out  of  his  arms.  I  heard  him  pant  as  I  drove  him  against  the 
wall.  I  remember  the  hissing  of  his  breath,  a  sudden  contact 
of  his  cheek  against  mine,  a  kiss  that  made  me  frantic  with 
fury,  the  crash  of  his  head  against  the  wardrobe,  and  the  joy 
of  it,  for  I  wanted  to  hurt  him.  My  blouse  was  torn,  and 
hung  round  one  shoulder.  My  hair  came  down  over  my  face. 
I  knew  only  that  I  wanted  to  get  away,  to  run  as  I  was, 
away,  anywhere.  At  last  I  had  an  idea.  He  was  holding 
both  my  wrists.  I  suddenly  swung  round,  so  as  to  hurl  him 
against  the  wardrobe.  As  I  did  so,  he  let  me  go,  falling  to 


FACING  IT  OUT  299 

the  floor,  but  the  impetus  of  my  movement  carried  me  across, 
the  room.    I  tripped  on  the  open  trunk  and  fell. 


m 

When  I  regained  consciousness,  I  was  in  the  same  room,  hi 
bed.  Something  seemed  to  have  happened  to  it,  for  every- 
thing was  beautifully  tidy.  A  pleasant,  elderly  man  stood 
by  my  bedside.  There  was  a  nurse,  too.  They  talked  to  me 
kindly,  told  me  I'd  been  stunned  and  would  soon  be  all 
right.  It  was  only  in  the  night,  after  I  knew  that  now  I 
would  have  no  child,  that  I  reconstructed  the  scene.  I  had 
fallen  down,  I  remembered  that.  I  was  quiet  now,  after 
being  in  pain,  but  rather  light-headed.  The  nurse  looked 
different  from  the  one  I'd  seen  in  the  afternoon.  I  think  I 
was  delirious  for  three  or  four  days,  during  which  monstrous 
visions  occupied  my  mind.  Sometimes  I  discovered  the  last 
scene  and  heard  myself  scream.  Then  I  was  with  Mrs.  Vern- 
ham,  and  recited  idiotic  love  passages  between  lords  and 
ladies.  Occasionally  I  felt  a  coldness  on  my  head — ice,  per- 
haps. And  the  face  of  Julian  forms,  very  lovely  and  sorrow- 
ful. But  why  did  I  hate  it  so? 

Then  I'm  conscious  again  and  very  weak.  I  know  what 
has  happened.  I  know  that  I  have  two  nurses.  Julian  comes 
twice  a  day  for  half  an  hour,  and  I  let  him  talk.  I'm  too  weak 
to  hate  him.  I  like  the  doctor.  He  doesn't  talk  about  illness 
and  strange  cases,  as  the  nurses  do  all  the  tune.  He  admires 
my  dressing  jacket. 

It  was  only  a  week  later  that  I  understood  my  situation 
completely.  That  fall  had  made  an  end  of  my  child. 
Strangely  enough,  I  did  not  feel  relief.  If  I'd  been  sensible 
then,  I  should  have  been  glad,  for  what  should  I  have  done 
with  it?  But  I  was  disappointed.  I'd  been  done  out  of  ad- 
venture. And  I  felt  so  ill.  I  had  to  go  into  a  nursing  home 
for  some  obscure  operation.  People  were  rather  grave  when 
they  talked  to  me;  I  was  allowed  no  visitors  until  the  4th 
or  5th  of  December.  In  the  middle  of  the  month,  when  I 
felt  stronger,  Julian  spent  an  hour  with  me.  He  was  charm- 

20 


300  URSULA   TRENT 

ing;  I  nearly  forgave  him,  not  because  he  looked  anxious, 
but  because  I  had  suffered  so  much  that  hate  had  run  out  of 
me  with  pain;  as  if  suffering  had  cleansed  me  of  pettiness. 
After  he  had  denied  Sadie's  accusations,  at  which  I  smiled 
without  anger,  after  he  had  protested  his  love  for  me,  which 
I  chose  to  believe,  I  said: 

"Don't  let's  talk  about  it  any  more.  Let's  forget  it.  Let's 
start  again." 

At  once  he  smiled  like  a  little  boy  forgiven,  kissed  my 
hand,  and  said:  "Phew!  I'll  be  glad  to  get  you  home  again. 
You  used  to  smell  of  mille  fleurs,  but  now  it's  lysol." 

I  was  discharged  just  before  Christmas,  after  seeing  many 
visitors.  It's  funny  having  visitors  when  one's  hi  bed. 
One's  in  bed  such  a  long  tune,  and  visitors  say  so  little.  One 
hates  sick  people,  really;  one  doesn't  know  what  to  say  to 
them.  One  knows  it  isn't  good  for  them  to  talk  of  their  ill- 
ness, and  one  doesn't  know  what  else  to  talk  about.  Invalids 
have  seen  nobody,  or  nothing;  they  have  no  news,  so  one 
can't  gossip  with  them.  One  stays.  One  is  bored.  One 
glances  covertly  at  one's  watch.  One  gets  away  when  one 
can.  Ninette  came  with  Roderick,  and  Arf  a  Mo'  by  him- 
self. Everybody  brought  me  grapes.  They  were  flattering, 
but  most  of  them  went  early. 

A  constant  visitor  was  Frills.  I  think  the  little  woman 
felt  guilty  because  she  had  told  Julian  where  I  lived  when  I 
ran  away.  So  she  too  brought  me  grapes,  and  great  budgets 
of  news  about  people  I  didn't  know.  Ninette  was  more 
amusing  when  she  came  without  Roderick,  and  wanted  to 
know  exactly  how  much  I'd  been  hurt.  I  felt  shy  at  first, 
then  indulged  her;  her  beautiful  eyes  glowed  like  green 
lights.  I  think  she  was  envious. 

Then  there  was  Satterthwaite.  The  old  Jew  was  perfect; 
the  first  time  he  brought  an  aunt  of  seventy-five,  a  Mrs. 
Mosenberg.  As  she  sat  down  hi  a  corner,  knitted  all  the  tune, 
and  did  not  look  at  me,  I  gathered  that  Montmorency  had 
brought  her  as  a  chaperon.  He  was  very  sweet,  full  of  gossip, 
full  of  plans,  promising  to  put  back  his  new  big  film  a  fort- 
night, so  that  I  might  be  well  enough  to  come  to  the  private 


FACING  IT  OUT  301 

view.  He  was  fatherly,  and  patted  my  arm  with  a  large 
hand,  so  fat  as  to  be  almost  globular.  He  was  so  very  sorry 
for  me,  so  certain  that  all  this  was  Julian's  fault,  and  so  in- 
capable of  saying  an  ill  word  against  the  man  who  had 
helped  him. 

"He's  so  young,"  he  said.  That  was  as  far  as  Satter- 
thwaite  could  blame.  I  believed  his  chaperon  worried  him 
a  little,  for  at  the  end  ot!  the  interview  he  talked  in  a  lower 
voice.  Was  I  quite  happy?  Did  I  want  anything?  Ev- 
erything he  had  was  mine.  I  grew  sure  that  Satterthwaite 
was  moved  when  he  came  alone,  next  day.  He  behaved 
quite  respectfully,  but  he  suddenly  had  a  burst.  "Chap- 
erons! Ach!  what  nonsense!  I'm  old  enough  to  be  your 
father." 

Dear  old  man!  He  wasn't  really  old — fifty,  perhaps — but 
he  was  the  only  practical  person  I  knew.  While  the  others 
offered  me  things  I  wasn't  allowed  to  eat,  and  all  without 
exception  brought  me  the  Bystander  or  Pan,  without  con- 
sidering that  everybody  else  would  bring  them,  too,  Satter- 
thwaite was  worthily  active.  It  was  he  ordered  a  car  to  fetch 
me  on  the  day  I  left  the  home;  he,  too,  reminded  Julian  to 
order  a  petite  marmite  and  boiled  fowl  for  my  first  dinner. 
(Healthy,  but  beastly.)  It  was  even  Satterthwaite  who  saw 
Beatrice  and  made  her  put  out  my  sheets  to  air  before  the 
fire. 

I  didn't  find  it  out  at  first.  I  thought  it  was  Julian,  and 
nearly  forgave  him  entirely.  But  not  quite.  I  couldn't. 
It  wasn't  that  I  had  anything  precise  against  him,  for  we'd 
blotted  that  out,  but  there  was  something  missing  between 
us;  my  sense  of  safety  was  gone.  The  first  evening,  as  I 
went  to  bed,  I  hesitated  for  a  moment  before  the  door. 
Then  I  locked  it.  Well,  I'd  done  it.  I  didn't  suppose  that 
could  go  on  forever,  for  we  couldn't  live  like  that,  but  I 
couldn't  yet  leave  the  door  unlocked.  On  the  third  evening 
Julian  rattled  the  handle,  then  desisted.  Nothing  was  said 
about  it,  but  he  didn't  try  again.  I  confess  it  was  the  fact 
that  he  did  not  try  again  parted  us  completely.  He  was 
gadding  about,  and,  though  very  nice,  going  out  every  eve- 


302  URSULA   TRENT 

ning.  We  were  going  away  on  the  21st  to  stay  at  Walmer 
with  Lord  Alfred.  I  was  deeply  offended.  Julian  ought  to 
try  to  reconquer  me.  Even  if  he  failed,  it  was  better  he 
should  try.  I  brooded  over  this  a  good  deal,  though  I  had 
other  troubles.  I  looked  hideous;  my  arms  and  legs  felt 
like  gelatine.  Still,  I  brooded  over  it,  for  a  woman  finds 
it  harder  not  to  be  wanted  by  a  man  than  a  man  to  be 
rejected  by  a  woman.  That's  partly  because  she  can't  make 
advances,  or  thinks  she  can't.  Also  because  a  man,  as  a 
rule,  can  console  himself  with  somebody  else.  A  woman's 
too  particular. 


Chapter  III 
Alec 


AT  the  last  moment  I  nearly  refused  to  go  down  to  Lord 
Alfred's  place.  I  looked  too  hideous.  After  being  ill 
and  a  long  time  in  bed,  one's  hair  gets  dull.  I  didn't  expect 
the  sea  air  would  assist  it  much.  My  skin  was  .  .  .  almost 
mottled,  and  no  man  would  have  seen  his  features  in  my  eyes 
except  as  a  bad  photograph.  But  Julian  overruled  me,  and 
I  went  to  please  him.  He  had  sinned  against  me,  so  I 
couldn't  do  anything  else. 

Notley,  which  Lord  Alfred  referred  to  as  "his  little  place 
in  Kent,"  was  an  enormous  brick  house  on  two  floors,  in 
the  shape  of  an  E  without  the  middle  tongue.  It  stood  about 
a  mile  south  of  Walmer  Castle,  rather  askew  to  the  sea,  but 
so  near  as  to  have  been  affected  by  a  landslip  twenty  years 
before,  which  had  made  the  north  wing  unsafe.  Notley  was 
mostly  corridors;  the  north  wind  seemed  to  enjoy  so  much 
entering  at  one  end  and  coming  out  of  the  other  that  it  went 
in  again  as  soon  as  it  came  out.  If  the  oak  doors  had  not 
been  fitted  in  the  eighteenth  century  they  would  have  flapped 
as  in  a  bungalow.  Notley  was  very  like  Lord  Alfred.  Some 
rooms  had  been  furnished  by  Chippendale;  others  combined 
Heppelwhite  furniture  with  maple  beds,  liberty  hangings. 
I  never  saw  so  many  oddments  in  a  house,  and  the  untidiness 
was  extreme.  Lord  Alfred  seemed  to  have  dropped  his 
fishing  rods  in  my  bedroom.  In  a  sort  of  cellar  I  found  three 
pianos,  which,  Lord  Alfred  said,  "must  have  come  from 
somewhere."  It  was  a  real  bachelor's  house,  where  the 
servants  adored  their  master,  seldom  answered  bells,  and,  I 
believe,  made  love  in  the  drawing-room.  It  was  significant 


304  URSULA   TRENT 

that  the  twenty-year-old  landslip  had  only  now  been  noticed, 
and  that  was  why  Lord  Alfred's  architect  was  staying  in  the 
house.  He  came  in  the  nick  of  time. 

We  possessed  all  the  elements  of  a  jolly  party.  Besides 
Julian  and  me,  Lord  Alfred  had  invited  Ninette  and  Roderick, 
also  two  odd  girls,  one  with  red  hair,  who  was  called  "Dick," 
and  a  little  thing  who  fluffed  out  her  fair  hair  and  insisted  on 
being  called  Gaby.  There  was  also  the  architect,  Mr.  Brough ; 
on  Christmas  Eve  our  host  informed  us  that  he  expected  that 
some  men  would  float  in  sometime. 

How  we  ate!  At  Lord  Alfred's  they  didn't  dust  much,  but 
they  cooked.  In  three  days  he  made  us  eat  six  Christmas 
dinners,  drink  so  much  liquor  that  I  believed  him  when  he 
said  that  he  got  it  cheap  from  smugglers  who  landed  it  at  his 
front  door.  It  was  rather  fun,  for  on  Christmas  night  we  all 
got  into  pajamas,  and  I  was  lightheaded  enough  to  dance. 
Another  dance  was  going  on  hi  the  servants'  quarters, 
judging  from  the  sounds.  I  liked  it,  for  everybody  got  so 
untidy  that  I  didn't  look  so  dreadful  as  I  might  have.  But 
I  wasn't  a  success.  Lord  Alfred  told  me  that  Little  Bears 
didn't  have  the  hump,  which  was  reserved  by  camels.  Julian 
danced  a  lot  with  "Dick,"  which  annoyed  me.  It  should  not, 
but  the  red-haired  girl  seemed  to  like  him  so  much,  and  laid 
her  head  upon  his  shoulder  as  they  danced.  Of  course,  she'd 
had  much  too  much  to  drink.  I  had  a  silly  wrangle  with 
Julian,  I  forget  about  what,  when  we  went  upstairs.  Perhaps 
it  was  because  my  hot  water  was  nearly  frozen.  Also  the 
bath  was  out  of  order.  I  can't  stand  chaos. 

It  was  the  sort  of  holiday  when  one  wants  to  quarrel.  It 
froze  on  Christmas  Day,  and  froze  harder  the  day  after.  In 
despair  I  went  out  alone,  and  came  back  with  streaming  red 
eyes,  to  find  the  architect  wanning  himself  at  the  fire,  with 
a  sheep  dog  asleep  in  his  arms.  This  did  me  good,  and  I 
laughed  out  loud  to  see  him  nursing  this  enormous  creature. 
I  observed  him  better  now,  though  I  had  danced  with  him 
as  one  dances  with  people  without  bothering  about  them. 
He  looked  about  thirty-five,  was  shortish,  broad,  rather  un- 
distinguished in  feature.  He  had  gray  eyes  and  a  reddish 


ALEC  305 

cropped  mustache;  he  wore  loose  gray  tweeds  which  didn't 
suit  his  complexion.  But  he  had  a  good  voice,  and  a  sort  of 
blunt  self-assurance  that  was  not  unpleasing.  His  Christian 
name,  I  gathered,  was  Alec,  for  all  the  women  except  me 
used  it. 

"Hullo!"  he  said.    "Been  out?    Plucky  thing  to  do." 

"Yes.     I'm  frozen." 

"Have  a  warm?"  He  painfully  shifted  along  the  hearth- 
rug, dragging  the  dog  with  him;  after  a  moment's  hesitation 
I  sat  on  the  chair. 

"It's  freezing  stiff,"  he  said.  "There  '11  be  no  hunting 
this  side  of  the  New- Year." 

"You  hunt?" 

"Yes,  now  and  then.  I  go  down  to  Stow-on-the-Wold  for 
a  run  with  the  Heythrop." 

"Do  you?"  I  said,  excitedly.  "Perhaps  I  know  your 
friends?"  Then  I  blushed.  I  oughtn't  to  have  said 
that. 

"Maybe.  I  stay  with  Jack  Hunbury  as  a  rule.  Perhaps 
you  know  his  wife?" 

"No.  .  .  .  I've  heard  the  name." 

"Oh!  Sometimes,  when  they  can't  have  me,  I  put  up  at 
the  'Spotted  Pig.'" 

We  talked  about  hunting  for  a  little  while.  It  was  so  nice. 
I  felt  like  so  long  ago.  But  after  a  tune  I  thought  the  sub- 
ject too  risky.  I  didn't  want  him  to  talk  about  me  down 
there,  and  deliver  another  blow  at  poor  mamma.  So  I  tried 
to  get  on  to  his  own  topic,  which  generally  gets  men  off  all 
others.  "How  do  you  find  tune  to  hunt?  Isn't  an  architect 
tied  up  in  town?" 

"I  escape  now  and  then.  Mind  you,  when  I  say  escape 
I  don't  mean  I  don't  like  my  work." 

"Must  be  awfully  exciting." 

"I  don't  know.  One  makes  something.  That's  good 
enough." 

"How  do  you  mean,  good  enough?" 

He  looked  faintly  hostile,  as  if  annoyed  at  not  being 
understood. 


306  URSULA   TRENT 

"Making  something,"  he  said.  "Well,  that's  all  one's  got 
to  do  in  the  world.  See  what  I  mean?  " 

I  saw.  He  was  rather  interesting,  this  faintly  rough  man. 
He  went  on  talking.  I  found  that  he  had  been  to  Cambridge, 
that  he  had  had  a  partner,  then  set  up  on  his  own,  because 
he  couldn't  agree  with  another  man.  But  we  grew  intimate 
only  when  we  discovered  a  mutual  friend,  Satterthwaite. 
It  seemed  that  Alec  Brough  had  planned  several  picture 
houses  for  the  old  man. 

"Of  course,  I  don't  know  him  really."  As  he  said  that  he 
looked  like  a  horse  that's  going  to  shy.  He  must  have  felt 
that,  for  he  explained : "  One  meets  a  lot  of  people  hi  my  trade. 
People  are  queer.  And  one  needn't  bother  about  them." 

"You  mean  you  live  your  own  life?" 

"Well,  yes.  One  doesn't  want  to  take  up  with  people. 
They  distract  one."  Then  he  grew  silent,  and  I  found  great 
difficulty  in  making  him  explain.  I  gathered  hi  mangled 
sentences  that  Brough  thought  that  a  man  could  do  good 
work  only  if  he  remained  lonely.  "All  this  sort  of  thing," 
he  said,  jerking  his  head  toward  the  sound  of  a  gramophone 
in  some  room,  "it  sort  of  dissipates  you.  You  know." 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't.    All  my  life  is  dissipation,  I  suppose." 

"May  be  the  best  way  for  you.  I'm  not  going  to  lay  down 
the  law  about  how  you  ought  to  live.  Quite  busy  enough 
finding  out  how  to  do  it  myself." 

"You  don't  look  like  that,"  I  said,  half  surprised  by  my 
indiscretion. 

He  did  not  reply,  but,  ridding  himself  of  the  sheep  dog, 
which  he  placed  upon  its  back  so  that  he  could  tickle  its 
chest:  "You  like  dogs?" 

I  replied,  but  observed  that  he  had  not  answered  my 
question.  Nor  did  he  ever.  He  played  with  the  dog  and  I 
went  hi. 

I  don't  know  why,  but  somehow  the  presence  of  Alec 
Brough  provided  me  that  day  and  the  next  with  a  certain 
reassurance.  He  had  the  voice  of  a  university  and  the 
manners  of  a  plowboy;  the  contrast  was  rather  pleasing. 
That  afternoon,  after  tea,  he  came  sidling  up  to  me  and 


ALEC  307 

ungraciously  remarked  that,  if  I  liked,  he'd  show  me  his 
plans  to  secure  the  north  wing,  if  I  thought  I  could  under- 
stand them.  So,  nettled,  I  went  to  the  workshop  he  had  set 
up  in  the  damaged  quarter,  and  was  shown  those  wearisome 
plans  that  no  woman  hi  the  world  can  grasp,  or  wants  to 
grasp,  where  one  picks  out  a  stippled  section  and  says  intel- 
ligently, "Is  that  a  dado?"  and  is  told,  "No,  it's  a  drain." 
Alec  Brough  was  a  real  man;  he  actually  talked  to  me  of 
stresses.  To  this  day  I  don't  know  if  a  stress  is  a  tool  or  a 
metaphor,  but  I  was  lucky. 

"I  see,"  I  said.  "You're  putting  granite  on  the  sea  side 
and  brick  on  the  land  side,  because  you  thmk  that  the 
house  '11  tilt  if  the  land  slips  again." 

He  brought  his  hands  together  almost  with  a  clap.  "By 
Jove!"  he  said,  "how  did  you  get  at  that?"  I  was  prudent 
enough  to  say  nothing  and  just  to  smile.  "Well,  that's  it." 
He  embarked  into  elucidations  that  elucidated  nothing. 
He  summed  up,  "Mrs.  Quin,  you  might  have  made  an  archi- 
tect." From  architecture  we  went  on  to  art  in  general. 
He  knew  many  things  I'd  never  heard  of,  but  he  was  queer, 
as  if  afraid  to  boast.  On  my  remarking  that  he  seemed  to 
know  all  the  foreign  literature,  he  almost  snarled:  "Of  course 
I  don't,  and  don't  want  to.  I  haven't  time  to  be  stirred  up. 
They  talk  of  Russian  revolutions  coming  out  of  the  people! 
Revolutions  come  out  of  books.  All  the  French  Liberalism 
of  '48,  you'll  find  it  in  Stendhal  twenty  years  before."  Then 
he  grinned.  "But  I'm  not  sure  that  the  biggest  revolution 
wasn't  the  invention  of  the  bathroom.  People  talk  of  kings, 
and  socialism,  and  all  that,  but  I  say  baths  and  armor- 
bright  stoves.  That's  how  you  change  the  mentality  of 
people."  He  interested  me,  for  his  materialism  was  injected 
with  something  enthusiastic  that  half  hurt  him.  He  must 
have  felt  that  I  understood  that,  for  again  in  the  evening  he 
singled  me  out,  while  Lord  Alfred  and  three  others  played 
bridge,  and  Julian  and  "Dick"  larked  in  the  corridors. 
As  we  played  billiards,  I  think  I  became  more  woman  to  him, 
for  I  found  his  eyes  resting  upon  me  seriously  while  he 
chalked  his  cue.  He  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  changed 


308  URSULA   TRENT 

his  mind.  He  disturbed  me,  and  I  began  to  think  him 
rather  good-looking,  for  his  eyes  were  steady  and  his  nose 
was  straight.  I  was  curious  to  see  his  mouth  without  that 
reddish  mustache.  The  under  lip  was  sulky  and  sensitive, 
but  then  the  upper  lip  reveals  the  man. 

Some  time  after  I  went  up  Julian  came  in.  He  looked 
rather  dissipated,  his  hair  ruffled  over  one  ear,  his  shirt  front 
askew.  But  he  was  quite  amiable.  "Well,  Little  Bear," 
he  said,  as  he  took  off  his  shoes,  "you  been  enjoying  yourself 
mashing  the  architect?" 

"How  do  you  mean,  mashing?"  I  said,  sitting  up.  Then 
I  laughed.  I  felt  ridiculous. 

"Perhaps  it  wasn't  mashing,"  said  Julian,  amiably.  "Per- 
haps you  don't  mean  anything,  while  the  poor  fellow's  got 
it  in  the  midriff." 

"How  can  you  talk  such  nonsense?" 

He  came  up  to  me,  stroking  my  arm.  He  wanted  to  tease 
me.  "He  isn't  bad-looking,  but  not  exactly  your  style,  I 
should  have  thought.  You  like  us  more  emaciated,  don't 
you?" 

"Don't  be  silly." 

He  went  on  chaffing  me,  while  I  sulked.  Then  he  kissed 
and  caressed  me  into  a  good  humor,  for  he  seemed  very 
pleased  with  himself  and  painfully  tolerant.  He  went  to 
sleep  before  I  did,  and  I  lay  awake,  considering  that  it  was 
bad-mannered  of  Julian  to  worry  so  little  over  my  apparent 
attraction  to  Mr.  Brough.  Also  I  was  curious  to  see  my 
new  friend  again.  A  strange  fellow,  obviously  an  artist  in 
his  rough  way.  I  went  to  sleep  vaguely  looking  forward  to 
the  morrow. 


Next  day  was  an  agitated  one.  To  begin  with,  when  I 
decided  to  go  out  in  the  morning,  I  found  Mr.  Brough 
lounging  in  the  hall  and  smoking  a  pipe  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  is  waiting  for  something  to  do.  We  talked  for  a 
moment,  and  ^ust  as  I  was  awkwardly  wondering  whether  I 


ALEC  309 

should  go,  leaving  him  there,  he  said,  "What  are  you  doing 
in  this  crowd?" 

"What?  "I  said. 

"Yes.    With  all  these  people.    They  aren't  your  sort." 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  I  replied,  with  dignity. 

"Oh,  well,  have  it  as  you  like." 

I  was  speechless.  I  still  wasn't  used  to  having  things 
said  straight  out,  and  yet  I  did  not  walk  off  with  my  head 
in  the  air.  To  begin  with,  I  had  just  caught  sight  of  myself 
in  the  looking-glass.  That  sort  of  face  didn't  fit  in  with  dig- 
nity. So,  instead  of  flaring  up,  I  flopped  on  to  a  chair  and 
began  to  cry,  I  don't  know  why,  except  that  I  felt  ill  and 
forlorn.  As  I  dried  my  eyes  I  noticed,  first  in  amazement, 
and  then  in  gratitude,  that  Alec  Brough  couldn't  have  seen 
those  rapid  tears,  for  he  was  kneeling  on  the  hearthstone, 
cleaning  his  pipe,  and  at  intervals  softly  cursing.  I  stared 
at  his  back  for  a  moment.  A  broad  back.  Perhaps  I  was 
wrong  to  think  that  gray  tweeds  didn't  suit  him.  His  collar 
had  a  beautiful  gloss;  his  hair  was  cut  very  close  at  the  back. 
When  at  last  he  moved,  as  if  to  give  me  a  hint,  I  murmured, 
quite  gently,  "I  don't  quite  understand,  Mr.  Brough." 

"No?"  he  asked,  turning  round  and  filling  his  pipe,  still 
not  looking  at  me.  "One  doesn't  understand  when  one 
doesn't  want  to,  does  one?  Still,  perhaps  I'd  better  say 
nothing  more.  I'd  better  mind  my  own  business." 

"I  suppose  so,"  I  said,  but  at  once  the  coldness  vanished, 
and,  burying  my  face  in  my  hands,  I  began  to  cry  loudly, 
uncontrollably.  He  must  have  watched  me  for  a  moment, 
wondering  what  to  do.  Then  a  rather  large,  hard  hand 
patted  me  gently  on  the  shoulder,  and  a  soft  voice  said: 
"Go  on,  cry.  It  '11  do  you  good." 

I  looked  up  at  him  in  spite  of  my  wet  face.  Men  always 
say,  "Don't  cry."  They  always  try  to  do  you  out  of  the 
relief  of  tears.  He  seemed  to  understand  me.  As  this  idea 
stopped  my  tears,  he  smiled  at  me  and  said:  "All  over? 
April  shower?  Not  an  English  summer,  I  observe." 

I  smiled,  and  began  to  dab  at  my  eyes,  motioning  him  to 
turn  away.  "Don't  look  at  me.  I  look  awful." 


310  URSULA   TRENT 

'I  don't  know  about  awful,  but  you  do  look  a  bit  damp." 

'Why  do  you  bother  about  me?"  I  said. 

'Well,  you  look  unhappy." 

'That  means  I  look  ugly,  doesn't  it?" 

'No."    Judicially,  "Not  ugly." 

'  Thank  you." 

'I  don't  want  to  pay  you  any  compliments.  Going  out?" 
I  nodded.  "  Suppose  we  walk  into  Deal  and  buy  a  penn'orth 
of  pins?" 

I  laughed,  and  we  went  together,  staying  out  until  lunch. 
I  didn't  tell  Julian.  If  he  knew  and  was  jealous,  so  much  the 
better.  But  as  we  came  back  I  was  rather  more  nervous 
of  Julian's  possible  jealousy,  for  I  had  enjoyed  Alec  Brough's 
society.  My  pleasure  made  me  feel  guilty.  We  talked  a 
good  deal,  and  though  I  couldn't  tell  him  how  I  was  situated, 
I  let  him  understand  that  I  was  a  stranger  among  the  "Dicks" 
and  the  "Gabys."  Somehow,  too,  he  conveyed  that  he 
found  pleasure  in  my  awful  appearance,  for  he  looked  at  me 
several  times  a  little  longer  than  he  need  have  done.  Oh,  it 
does  one  such  a  lot  of  good  to  have  a  man  look  at  one  when 
one's  feeling  ugly!  One  begins  to  hope.  By  degrees  one 
begins  to  think  that  one  can't  be  as  ugly  as  all  that.  I  knew 
a  little  more  about  him.  It  seemed  that  he  was  a  bachelor, 
and  that  he  had  quarreled  with  his  people  because  before  he 
wanted  to  be  an  architect  he'd  wanted  to  be  a  painter. 
"They'd  rather  I  said  I  wanted  to  be  a  burglar,"  he  remarked. 
"They  were  right,  though;  they  always  said  I  couldn't 
paint.  So  I  took  to  bricks  and  mortar,  and  now  I'm  a  re- 
formed character.  They're  willing  to  forgive  me,  so  I  let 
'em  forgive  me  on  occasional  holidays.  But  it's  not  the  same 
thing.  One  can't  forgive  one's  people  having  been  against 
one." 

"They  always  are,"  I  said,  savagely. 

"I  suppose  so.  Can't  be  helped.  It's  the  old  patriarch  of 
the  tribe  idea,  who  kicked  his  sons  out  of  the  tribe  when  they 
grew  up.  Didn't  like  children." 

"It's  worse  now,"  I  replied.  "The  patriarchs  don't  kick 
out  their  children;  they  make  them  stay." 


ALEC  311 

We  got  on  very  well.  It  seemed  that  he  had  a  house  in 
Hampstead,  with  a  garden  full  of  hollyhocks,  a  housekeeper 
who  bullied  him  for  his  own  good,  two  sheep  dogs  who  did 
a  lot  of  harm  to  the  garden,  a  large  tabby  cat  who  did  a  lot 
of  harm  to  the  sheep  dogs,  an  office  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, 
and  a  bundle  of  muddled  dreams  about  creating  a  new 
architectural  style.  As  he  put  it:  "The  Elizabethans  did  a 
bit  for  us,  and  the  Tudors,  and  so  did  the  Georgians.  We've 
got  to  do  something  better  than  brick  shops  with  a  stone 
facing,  which  by  a  sort  of  magic  stands  on  plate  glass." 

"Oh,  I  see.  It's  our  duty  to  posterity  to  leave  them 
something." 

"Duty's  a  fake,"  replied  Brough.  "We've  got  no  duty  to 
posterity.  Christopher  Wren  wasn't  thinking  of  me  when 
he  built  St.  Paul's.  He  built  St.  Paul's  because  he  liked 
doing  it.  There's  only  one  way  to  make  a  good  building, 
and  that's  to  make  a  building  you  like.  Enjoy  yourself. 
That's  what  life's  for." 

I  did  not  like  to  say  that  it  was  difficult  to  enjoy  oneself 
in  life.  We  got  back  to  find  that  two  men  had  floated  in, 
as  Lord  Alfred  put  it.  One  was  a  racing  man  called  Sheridan, 
the  other  a  rather  villainous,  elderly,  handsome  person, 
called  Herbert  Padbury,  who  sat  next  to  me  at  lunch,  and 
within  five  minutes  touched  my  hand  twice.  I  was  furious, 
then  remembered  that  Alec  Brough  seemed  to  find  me  at- 
tractive. Was  I  getting  attractive  again?  I  was  so  excited 
that  I  got  my  pocket  mirror  out  of  my  little  bag.  Every- 
body laughed,  for  they  thought  I  was  going  to  powder 
at  table,  but  I  didn't  mind.  Yes,  I  was  certainly  im- 
proving. 

In  the  afternoon  we  motored  to  Canterbury,  and  came 
back  via  Ashford.  That  is,  Lord  Alfred  drove,  with  Gaby 
by  his  side,  while  at  the  back  were  packed  Julian,  myself, 
Mr.  Padbury,  and  Ninette.  Of  course  Julian  had  to  attend 
to  Ninette,  so  Padbury  devoted  himself  to  me.  He  was  a 
queer,  rather  nasty  person,  but  I  didn't  quite  dislike  him. 
He  said  cynical  things  that  made  one  laugh.  But  I  didn't 
know  what  to  do,  for  Julian  openly  put  his  arm  round 


312  URSULA   TRENT 

Ninette's  waist,  and  I  couldn't  prevent  Mr.  Padbury's 
doing  the  same. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  said.  "You're  keeping  up  the 
conventions,  and  I'm  not.  There's  your  husband  with  the 
other  girl,  sitting  opposite  you,  while  my  poor  wife  is  eating 
her  heart  out  at  home." 

He  persecuted  me,  too,  when  we  got  back.  He  maneuvered 
me  into  corners.  He  wanted  to  know  whether  I'd  come  for 
a  run  in  his  two-seater.  Also,  his  home  being  out  of  London, 
he  had  a  flat  in  town.  Wouldn't  I  come  and  have  tea  and 
see  his  topping  Chinese  ivories?  I  was  irritated  to  find  that 
Alec  Brough  didn't  help  me  at  all.  He  seemed  more  in- 
terested in  Mr.  Sheridan,  with  whom  he  talked  racing. 
After  tea  they  even  went  away  together  to  dig  out  a  copy  of 
Ruff's  Guide  from  the  library.  But  the  climax  came  only 
next  day.  Suddenly  the  frost  stopped;  a  soft  south  wester 
was  blowing,  promising  rain,  and  carrying  the  deceptive 
suggestion  of  spring  which  one  sometimes  feels  in  the  winter 
in  the  home  counties.  In  the  afternoon  the  sun  fell  so  soft 
that  I  decided  to  visit  the  Italian  garden,  which  fell  away  in 
terraces  toward  the  south. 

The  garden  was  beautiful.  A  broad  flagged  terrace  gave 
upon  a  colonnade,  flanked  by  two  stone  pots  large  as  barrels, 
which  housed  each  one  an  old  box  tree.  Between  balustrades 
that  curved  away,  steps  led  to  another  terrace,  a  broad 
flower  bed,  empty  now,  but  which  shepherded  the  eye  toward 
another  terrace,  still  broader,  that  carried  a  lawn,  and  finally 
abutted  into  the  deep  horizon  of  the  spreading  garden  that 
flatly  ran  away  to  the  infinite  sea.  The  prospect  was  im- 
mensely satisfying.  It  went  step  by  step  into  the  undefined; 
it  held  peace  and  harmony.  I  stood  there  for  a  long  time, 
and  at  last  walked  down  to  rest  my  hand  awhile  upon  the 
stone  balustrade,  feeling  that  I  ought  to  have  my  hair 
powdered,  and  to  be  wearing  paniers  of  flowered  silk,  like 
Marie  Leczinska.  Then  I  told  myself  that  it  really  looked 
more  like  Dcnby  Sadler.  I'm  not  good  at  make-believe. 
Make,  rather  than  believe,  is  in  the  line  of  the  modern 
girl. 


ALEC  313 

After  a  while  I  noticed  that  a  figure  was  peering  into  the 
rush-grown  pond  at  the  bottom  of  the  last  terrace,  where  a 
few  aged  carp  cynically  circled.  It  was  Herbert  Padbury. 
He  annoyed  me.  I  would  have  said  to  him  as  Diogenes  to 
Alexander,  "Get  out  of  my  sunshine."  But  it  was  too  late 
to  go,  for  he  had  seen  me;  he  waved  a  cigar-bearing  hand 
and  cried:  "Come  down  and  look  at  these  old  fish,  Mrs. 
Quin.  I  wish  I  had  my  rod,  though  I  don't  suppose  they'd 
bite." 

I  went  toward  him.  I  could  do  no  other.  For  a  moment 
we  watched  the  carp,  that  stared  at  us,  and  even  came  to  the 
surface,  as  if  expecting  food. 

"Aren't  they  lovely?"  I  said.  "Just  like  those  fish  you  see 
on  that  funny  skim-milk  china — you  know,  the  Copenhagen 
stuff." 

"Yes,  they  aren't  bad.  Look  at  that  one,  brown  with  a 
touch  of  gold,  just  like  your  eyes." 

"Eyes  the  color  of  a  carp!    That's  hardly  flattering." 

"One  must  take  one's  similes  where  one  finds  them.  If 
only  you  didn't  look  away  I'd  think  of  something  more 
poetic." 

"It's  very  nice  of  you,"  I  replied,  "because,  if  you  want  to 
know,  at  present  I  think  I  look  like  a  boiled  rabbit." 

"I  like  rabbits,"  said  Mr.  Padbury,  throwing  me  an  ap- 
proving glance.  "But  you  aren't  a  rabbit.  More  like  a 
Persian  kitten,  one  of  those  reddy-brown  ones  that  have 
stolen  a  couple  of  stars  to  look  out  of,  and  down  from  an 
angel's  wing  to  make  their  fur." 

"You're  very  flowery,"  I  said.  But  my  smile  vanished, 
for  he  took  me  by  the  arm,  apparently  careless  of  those  who 
might  watch  from  the  windows.  "That's  enough  rotting," 
he  said,  hoarsely.  "You're  some  girl."  He  paused,  but  his 
look  finished  his  sentence,  and  I  released  myself.  As  I  walked 
away  he  called  out:  "Hi!  don't  go  away  like  that.  I  apolo- 
gize. I'll  never  do  it  again  till  next  time." 

I  went  into  the  house.  I  wasn't  very  offended,  for,  after 
all,  a  man  has  a  right  to  approach  a  woman.  How  else  is  he 
to  find  out  whether  she  likes  him?  But  there  was  about 


314  URSULA   TRENT 

Padbury  something  so  dissipated;  he  looked  such  a  drunken 
rake,  and  I'd  heard  stories  about  him  from  Gaby.  Some- 
thing about  a  wife  whose  money  he'd  run  through.  It 
seemed  that  he  had  courted  an  old  maid,  a  Miss  Buhner,  a 
good  match,  since  her  brother,  Lord  Bulmer,  was  getting 
richer  and  richer,  then  threw  her  over  to  marry  a  rich  Ameri- 
can. So  I  sat  down  in  the  drawing-room,  hoping  Mr.  Brough 
would  drift  in.  But  he  did  not.  The  house  seemed  empty. 
Lord  Alfred  had  gone  out  in  the  car  with  Gaby,  Mr.  Sheridan, 
and  the  Benthams.  Julian  was  hiding  somewhere  with 
"Dick."  I  was  perhaps  too  worn,  perhaps  too  full  of  a  new 
interest,  to  care  much  about  that.  So  I  sat  down,  read  the 
illustrated  papers,  and  smoked.  An  hour  passed.  The  house 
was  very  silent,  except  that  now  and  then  one  heard  a  house- 
maid, pursued  by  a  footman,  giggle  in  this  bachelor  home  of 
anarchy.  Nothing  happened;  the  sun  fell  softer  and  softer 
as  the  afternoon  wore  on.  It  was  too  bad  to  stay  indoors, 
with  half  the  winter  yet  to  come,  and  to  lose  this  Elysian 
day.  I  looked  out;  there  was  nobody  on  the  terraces.  No 
doubt  Mr.  Padbury  had  gone  to  Walmer  to  pick  up  somebody 
in  the  parade.  Oh,  well,  I  could  get  rid  of  him  if  he  worried 
me. 

I  went  out  again.  Indeed,  the  terraces  were  deserted,  and 
,1  walked  right  down  the  garden,  almost  to  the  foreshore. 
I  felt  inclined  to  explore.  On  the  right,  running  down  almost 
to  the  sea,  was  a  little  wood  of  fir  trees,  casting  the  black 
shadow  of  their  everlasting  leaves.  It  looked  a  fairy  wood. 
( I  went  in.  It  smelled  moist  and  earthy.  As  it  was  a  little 
.  wood,  I  thought  I  would  go  down  to  the  sea  over  the  spongy 
carpet  of  fallen  needles.  Just  as  I  reached  the  middle  I 
started.  I  had  not  expected  what  I  saw — Mr.  Padbury, 
established  in  a  hollow,  huddled  up  in  overcoat  and  muffler, 
smoking  a  cigar,  and  reading  The  Winning  Post.  He  looked 
up. 

"Hullo!  Were  you  looking  for  me?"  This  impertinence 
silenced  me,  so  he  had  time  to  go  on.  "I  say,  Little  Bear, 
it  was  nice  of  you  to  come  after  me."  He  stood  up,  came 
toward  me,  and,  as  he  put  out  a  hand,  I  stepped  back. 


ALEC  315 

"Don't  touch  me." 

"Dear  me!  Have  you  changed  your  mind  so  soon, 
darling?" 

I  saw  that  he  was  working  his  way  between  me  and  the 
house,  but  I  couldn't  very  well  rush  past  him;  I  should  have 
been  ridiculous.  But  I  did  edge  toward  the  garden,  and  thus 
we  came  still  closer  together. 

"Let's  be  friends,"  he  said.  "You're  too  sweet  for  words. 
Come  and  sit  in  that  little  hole.  It's  beautifully  downy." 

"No,  thank  you." 

"What  were  you  doing  here,  then?  Looking  for  a  little 
place  for  yourself?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  where  there's  room  for  one  there's  room  for  two 
when  they  like  one  another."  With  shocking  speed  he  seized 
my  hand  and  tried  to  draw  me  into  his  arms.  I  said  nothing,, 
but  thrust  him  away  and  ran.  I  ran  down  the  slope,  but  at 
once  I  heard  his  footsteps  behind  me.  We  were  dodging 
between  the  trunks.  How  long  it  seemed,  this  little  way  to 
the  sea.  I  was  terrified.  I  think  I  lost  my  direction,  or  he 
headed  me  off,  for  just  as  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  sea  I 
found  that  he  stood  between  me  and  the  open.  I  stopped. 
Suddenly  we  found  ourselves  one  on  each  side  of  a  tree, 
jumping  from  side  to  side,  he  pursuing  me.  "Come  on," 
he  said,  "don't  be  silly.  I  won't  eat  you."  He  grabbed  at 
me,  missed.  "Come  on,  you  silly  kid.  You  know  you  want 
to  be  caught." 

I  eluded  him  again,  two  or  three  times.  "  Don't  you  overdo 
the  coyness,  or  I'll  go  home."  This  must  have  put  me  off 
my  guard,  for  he  feinted,  pretended  to  lunge  to  the  right,  and, 
coming  round  the  tree  on  the  left,  seized  me  round  the  waist. 
That  contact  infuriated  me.  I  hate  being  touched  by  some- 
body I  don't  like,  and  for  some  moments  we  fought,  I  with 
my  hands  against  his  shoulders,  keeping  his  head  away. 
Over  his  shoulder  I  could  see  the  blue  water,  the  safety  of  the 
open.  If  only  I  could  get  there.  A  public  path  ran  there. 
I  thought  of  all  this  as  we  struggled.  But  he  was  much  too 
strong  for  me,  and  too  practiced.  I  felt  my  arms  bend.  His 


316  URSULA   TRENT 

face  came  nearer  and  nearer,  rather  red,  and  full  of  hatred 
rather  than  desire.  This  happened  so  slowly  that  I  was 
terrified.  A  sharp  cry  came  from  me,  "Help!"  At  once  I 
grew  weaker.  One  does  when  one  cries  for  help  instead  of 
trusting  to  oneself.  Still  blindly  making  for  the  sea,  I  dragged 
him  nearly  to  the  edge  of  the  wood;  but  his  face  came  nearer, 
I  felt  his  breath.  Again  I  cried  for  help.  I  knew  that  to  this 
man  neither  violence  nor  deceit  was  foreign.  Then  he  kissed 
me,  upon  my  bended  neck,  while  in  a  weaker  voice  I  cried 
out  for  help.  But  as  he  kissed  me  I  heard  from  beyond  the 
curtain  of  trees  a  little  sharp  sound.  Then  another.  Miracu- 
lously I  found  myself  free,  trembling,  with  Padbury  staring 
toward  the  sea.  Then  again,  both,  we  heard  the  sound,  and 
saw  the  light  of  a  match  in  the  darkness.  I  think  we  ran 
both  together,  Padbury  toward  the  house  and  I  toward  the 
sea.  Upon  the  path,  looking  toward  the  wood  with  an  air 
of  great  indifference,  stood  Mr.  Brough,  who  seemed  to  be 
lighting  his  pipe.  I  could  hardly  speak  when  I  reached  him, 
but  he  did  not  seem  to  notice  my  embarrassment. 

"Hullo?"  he  said.     "Visiting  the  estate?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  panting. 

"Like  to  go  along  the  path?  It's  a  short  cut  to 
Walmer." 

I  went  with  him.  How  lucky  it  was  that  he  happened  to 
be  there,  and  that  the  striking  of  the  matches  frightened  my 
aggressor.  Then,  and  only  a  few  minutes  later  did  I  realize 
what  that  meant,  Mr.  Brough  put  his  pipe  into  his  pocket. 
It  was  empty.  I  remained  silent  for  some  tune  as  I  pieced 
the  drama  together.  He  must  have  seen  us,  heard  us.  In- 
stead of  rushing  into  the  wood  with  a  cry  of,  "Unhand  that 
woman!"  he  had  kept  cool,  had  so  arranged  things  as  to 
rescue  me  without  forcing  me  to  know  that  he  knew  of  my 
unpleasant  adventure;  he  had  saved  me  from  feeling  obliga- 
tion to  him.  I  couldn't  bear  that.  I  had  to  say  something. 
So  I  said,  "I'm  so  glad  you  came  by." 

He  glanced  at  me,  half  annoyed.    "How  do  you  mean?" 

"Why  did  you  strike  those  matches?" 

"To  light  my  pipe." 


ALEC  317 

"It  was  empty." 

"Oh,  a  man  often  chews  an  empty  pipe,  don't  you  know?" 
he  replied,  irritably. 

I  smiled.  "  Well,  I  won't  press  it,  since  you  don't  want  me 
to,  but  thank  you  very  much." 

Then  he  surprised  me.  "Damn!  Damn!  Damn!"  he 
remarked,  as  if  to  himself. 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"Really,  this  is  too  bad.  Just  because  I  happen  to  be  pass- 
ing by  a  wood,  and  happen  to  strike  a  few  matches,  and  you 
come  out,  you've  got  to  thank  me.  Of  course  the  fellow's  a 
cad.  I  suppose  I  can't  punch  his  head  when  we  get  back. 
It  'd  only  advertise  you." 

I  said  nothing.  I  liked  his  tact.  He  saw  the  situation  from 
my  point  of  view  and  never  from  that  of  the  romantic  hero. 
Indeed,  he  only  said  one  revealing  thing. 

"I  wish  it  hadn't  happened.  I  don't  want  you  to  feel 
obliged  to  me,  because  .  .  .  because  when  women  are  grate- 
ful to  one  for  some  trifle,  and  if  one  likes  them  at  all,  then 
they  . . .  they  .  . .  Oh,  damn,  let's  go  into  Walmer.  They've 
got  a  terrific  film  on  there,  'The  Woman  Who  Lived  Two 
Lives.'  Let's  go  and  be  shocked  by  her  other  life." 

I  fell  into  his  mood  and  we  walked  on.  But  his  rough 
sensitiveness  shook  me.  He  seemed  to  guess  my  feelings  and 
my  problems  without  questioning  me,  but,  always  with  that 
air  of  a  shying  horse,  he  plunged  into  commonplaces  when  he 
revealed  anything  of  himself  or  when  he  thought  that  I  was 
going  to  erpress  too  much.  At  last  I  realized  that  in  him 
discretion  conflicted  with  desire.  We  had  known  each  other 
only  four  days,  and  never  before  hi  four  days  had  I  be- 
come so  sure  of  anybody.  He  was — how  shall  I  put  it? — real. 
So  we  talked  a  good  deal,  though  we  never  got  to  the  picture 
palace;  it  was  too  late.  He  stated  a  few  general  ideas. 
They  were  very  masculine  ideas,  and  we  nearly  quarreled 
over  a  divorce  case  where  a  man  had  shot  his  wife's  lover, 
and  whose  murder  was  converted  into  manslaughter,  as  a 
result  of  which  a  nominal  sentence  was  imposed  and  the 
murderer  was  released.  I  thought  this  right,  but  Alec 


318  URSULA   TRENT 

Brough  thought  the  verdict  wrong,  though  the  accused 
should  have  been  set  free  all  the  same. 

"I  can't  make  you  out,"  I  said.  "You  want  to  do  a  thing 
you  think  wrong." 

He  twinkled  at  me.  "Yes.  And  you,  being  a  woman, 
don't  want  to  do  a  thing  that's  wrong;  you  prefer  to  do 
the  wrong  thing  and  call  it  right." 

"Oh,  you  men!"  I  said.  "You're  always  splitting  hairs. 
You're  all  lawyers  at  heart." 

"Maybe.  We  like  to  think  straight,  even  when  we  act 
crooked.  In  this  case  I  say  the  man  ought  to  have  been  sen- 
tenced to  death,  and  then  given  a  free  pardon.  Like  that 
justice  would  have  been  done." 

"Oh,  justice!"  I  said.  "If  there's  a  thing  that  makes  me 
tired  in  men  it's  their  idea  of  justice.  What's  the  good  of 
justice?  A  nasty,  rigid  thing  that  says,  'This  is  wrong,  and 
you  must  be  punished,  and  we  can't  help  your  motives,'  or, 
'This  is  right,  and  you  shall  have  the  O.  B.  E.,  and  we  can't 
be  bothered  about  the  dirty  tricks  you  used  in  getting  it.' 
Justice !  It's  like  a  penny-in-the-slot  machine." 

"I  know,"  said  Mr.  Brough.  "Women  hate  justice,  don't 
they?  You  like  what  you  call  mercy,  or  generosity — in  other 
words,  sloppy  sentiment — hang  the  victim  and  crown  the 
murderer.  There  was  a  musical  comedy  once,  called  'Up- 
sidonia,'  short,  I  suppose,  for  Upsidedownland.  I  should 
say  that  good  women  go  to  Upsidonia  when  they  die." 

"I  see  you  despise  women,  like  all  men,"  I  remarked, 
trying  to  look  mutinous. 

"No,  we  don't  despise  women,  only  they're  different.  I 
suppose  so,  at  least.  I  know  very  little  about  them." 

"Really?"  I  said.  I'd  heard  that  remark  before;  it  is  a 
popular  opening. 

"Really.    I've  been  too  busy." 

"Too  busy  to  notice  us?" 

"Yes,  too  busy.  But  there  comes  a  time  when  one  knows 
a  bit  about  life,  and  then  one  finds  out  that  it  isn't  what  one 
thought  it  was.  Most  of  the  time  I've  thought  life  was 
bricks  and  mortar,  but  I've  changed  my  mind." 


ALEC  319 

"How?"  I  couldn't  help  asking  that.  After  a  moment's 
hesitation  he  said: 

"I've  changed  my  mind  lately.  There  are  other  things 
than  bricks  and  mortar,  and  one  can't  always  get  at  them." 
He  threw  me  a  quick  glance,  looked  away,  and,  again  hesi- 
tating, added:  "Ships  that  pass  in  the  night,  you  know. 
It's  very  nice  while  the  lights  shine.  One  remembers  it. 
It's  better  than  nothing." 

I  did  not  reply,  and  we  went  back  rather  silent.  I  didn't 
want  to  understand  him  entirely.  I  was  afraid  of  under- 
standing him,  because  I  didn't  know  what  I'd  do  if  I  suc- 
ceeded. It  was  inconceivable  that  a  man  should  matter  to 
me  after  four  days.  And  I  belonged  to  Julian;  in  spite  of  all 
his  baseness  I  was  Julian's.  I  loved  Julian.  I  must  love 
Julian. 


Chapter  IV 
Ways  to  Freedom 


1I7[7'E  left  Notley  on  the  Friday  morning.  I  see  myself 
V  V  again,  alone  with  Julian  in  the  railway  carriage  that 
crawls  toward  Dover.  We  are  silent,  both  of  us,  he  behind 
the  Daily  Mail,  I  behind  the  Daily  Mirror.  We  look  very 
nice,  so  established.  I  wear  a  charming  coat  and  skirt  of 
brown  tweed  threaded  with  green;  a  violet  silk  muffler  lies 
by  my  side.  Julian  is  delicious  hi  dark  blue.  His  hands  are 
neat,  his  brown  boots  shine.  We  look  like  a  comfortably  sit- 
uated young  couple  that  have  been  married  just  long  enough 
to  sit  alone  in  a  railway  compartment  and  read  their  papers 
all  the  same. 

But  that  is  not  why  we  both  engross  ourselves,  why  we  are 
together  and  apart.  We  are  preserving  the  decencies  of  an 
indecent  situation.  We  do  not  love  each  other  any  more. 
We  have  been  like  that  for  a  long  time,  but  we  didn't  know  it; 
now  we  do.  But  we  go  along  together  because,  well,  there  it 
is,  one  can't  fly  apart  like  that,  even  when  the  bond  has 
gone.  We  are  like  the  water  and  the  glass  which  the  Japanese 
acrobat  whirls  hi  the  air  without  spilling  a  drop.  We  are 
apart  as  that  water  and  that  glass,  but  the  swing  keeps  us 
together.  When  the  force  that  caught  us  up  ceases  to  whirl 
us  round  at  once  that  glass  will  be  empty. 

As  I  turn  over  the  pages,  and  even  manage  to  smile  a  little 
over  Haselden,  who,  using  the  recent  Labor  victories,  shows 
me  the  day  of  a  Labor  member's  wife,  trying  to  cope  with 
social  success,  I  note  a  rumor  the  spring  fashion  will  give  us 
rather  fuller  skirts.  I  thought  as  much.  Pictures  of  women, 
society  leaders,  actresses,  and,  hullo!  Monica  and  her  first 


WAYS  TO  FREEDOM  321 

baby.  Then  I  come  across  a  picture  of  a  dancer  with  an 
upright  wig.  Suddenly  I  put  the  paper  down,  look  at  Julian, 
who  does  not  notice  me,  and  turn  away.  She  is  rather  like 
"Dick,"  that  dancing  girl.  They're  all  alike,  that  sort, 
turned  out  of  a  mold,  of  the  same  stock,  by  Desire  out  of 
Cupidity.  I  see  again  what  I  saw  last  night.  I  have  lost 
my  way  on  the  first  floor  along  these  many  corridors.  Once 
before,  I  have  floundered  into  Lord  Alfred's  room  and  found 
him  asleep  on  his  bed,  clad  only  in  shirt  and  trousers,  pink 
as  a  baby.  This  time,  as  I  turn  a  corner  and  hesitate,  I  see 
a  man  with  golden  hair  stand  at  an  open  door.  He  seems  to 
plead.  I  hear  a  laugh,  a  pretty  laugh,  a  whisper,  "No, 
you  mustn't."  Still  he  seems  to  plead.  How  can  she 
repel  him?  Do  I  not  know  the  softness  of  that  blue  gaze? 
Yet  she  does.  But  as  she  repels  she  invites.  The  red-crowned 
head  peers  from  the  doorway,  and  before  she  closes  the  door 
lightly  kisses  the  lips  that  mutely  appeal. 

He  saw  me  three  or  four  seconds  after  he  had  passed 
"Dick's"  door,  so  did  not  know  whether  I  had  seen  him  or 
not.  He  was  jaunty.  "Hullo,  Little  Bear!  What  you  doing 
here?  Lost,  like  me,  I  suppose.  I  never  can  find  my  way  in 
this  barn." 

"  Yes,"  I  reply,  "  I  was  lost.  Where's  our  room?  " 
Nothing  more  was  said.  I  remembered  the  day  when  I 
found  him  in  Sadie's  flat.  Now  I  am  calm.  I'm  used  to  it. 
And  I  turn  over  the  pages  of  the  Daily  Mirror,  seeking  some 
interest  that  awhile  shall  flicker  before  my  eyes  and  with  its 
rushlight  dispel  the  darkness  of  my  mood. 


When  I  got  home,  when  I  saw  about  me  the  familiar  things, 
once  friends,  now  acquaintances  rejoicing  over  my  troubles, 
I  decided  to  leave  Julian.  It  is  significant  of  the  depth  of 
my  resolution  that  this  time  there  was  no  theatrical  row, 
no  announcement  of  my  intentions.  I  didn't  pack,  I  didn't 
make  fantastic  plans.  I  merely  decided  that  as  soon  as  I 
was  ready  I  would  go.  I  was  perfectly  nice  to  Julian,  went 


322  URSULA   TRENT 

out  to  dinner  with  him,  talked  amiably  to  Arf  a  Mo',  and, 
when  we  came  back,  did  not  refuse  Julian  the  good-night 
kiss.  Why  should  I?  It  didn't  matter  to  me  much  whether 
he  kissed  me  or  not.  I  didn't  hate  him;  to  hate  him  I  should 
have  had  to  love  him  still.  Also,  I  slept  very  well.  Why  not? 
I  did  not  worry  over  him. 

Next  morning  I  made  my  plans.  On  paper.  One  thinks  best 
on  paper.  I  was  going  to  cut  clear  from  all  this,  give  up  the 
tinsel  life.  I  had  no  illusions  about  the  life  of  the  workinggirl; 
I  mean,  I  didn't  invest  it  with  any  dignity,  for  I  knew  that  be- 
ing a  workinggirl  means  cooking  sausages  on  one's  fire.  But, 
anyhow,  one  wasn't  deceived,  one  wasn't  ridiculous  before 
one's  acquaintances.  The  first  thing  to  do  was  to  get  clear. 
I  wasn't  going  to  leave  any  ends  sticking  out.  I  would  keep 
my  clothes,  for  they  had  been  given  to  me,  and  I  didn't  sup- 
pose that  Julian  would  dress  his  new  girl  in  my  old  clothes. 
No!  I  must  be  just;  he  hadn't  done  that  to  me.  But  I'd 
not  take  his  money,  and  I'd  not  even  be  beholden  to  Lord 
Alfred.  He  was  the  best  of  men,  but  I  owed  him  twenty- 
two  pounds.  That  must  be  paid  back.  Naturally  my 
first  desire  was  to  get  employment,  and  I  was  one  of  the 
fortunate  people  who  could  choose  between  two  jobs :  mani- 
cure or  shorthand  typing.  I  chose  manicure.  Not  because 
it  was  better  paid,  for  I  never  made  more  than  two  to  three 
pounds  in  a  week,  but  one  got  extras  that  a  shorthand  typist 
could  not  hope  for — free  dinners,  free  pleasures,  and  a  sort 
of  excitement.  WTiich  shows  that  Ursula  Quin  was  not  the 
same  woman  as  Ursula  Trent.  She'd  hardened.  She  was 
fitter  for  the  world;  she  was  inclined  to  take  what  she  could 
get,  and  to  abate  a  little  of  her  dignity  hi  so  doing.  She  was 
no  longer  a  diamond,  but  she  had  acquired  some  of  its 
hardness. 

I  had  no  luck.  I  first  went  to  the  manicure  shop  where  I 
had  had  my  nails  done  for  fifteen  months,  where  madame 
was  always  all  over  me,  pumping  me  to  get  hold  of  Julian's 
ideas  for  a  frock,  or  wondering  whether  I  had  any  theater 
tickets  to  spare,  I  who  got  so  many  from  my  amusing  friends. 
I  was  rather  surprised  to  find  madame  rather  different  when  I 


WAYS   TO  FREEDOM  323 

asked  her  whether  she  wanted  a  new  hand.  I  tried  to  cany 
it  off  by  pointing  out  that  my  husband  was  away  all  day, 
and  that,  as  I  had  no  children,  I  had  nothing  to  do,  but 
madame  grew  more  and  more  suspicious. 

"  I  didn't  know  you'd  been  a  manicurist,  Mrs.  Quin.  Fancy 
that!  When  I  see  you  such  a  fine  lady,  well,  I'd  never  have 
thought  it." 

"It  isn't  sinking  so  low,  is  it?" 

"No,  of  course  not,"  said  madame,  remembering  that  she 
was  taking  the  wrong  line  from  her  point  of  view. 

"Well,  will  you  take  me  on?" 

She  raised  desperate  arms.  "But  we  have  no  room!  We 
could  not  squeeze  in  one  more  young  lady." 

"The  gentlemen  wouldn't  mind  squeezing,  would  they?" 
said  Ursula  Quin. 

Madame  grew  rather  stiff.  "Mine  is  not  that  kind  of 
shop." 

"I  apologize,"  said  Ursula  Trent. 

Madame  wouldn't  have  me.  She  hinted  that  I  would  turn 
the  other  girls'  heads  by  my  grand  way  of  living.  I  would 
get  them  into  bad  ways,  and  she  wanted  to  keep  her  house 
respectable.  I  gathered  indirectly  that,  after  trying  both 
methods,  madame  found  respectability  paid  better! 

It  took  me  some  time  to  make  up  my  mind  to  go  into  the 
real  labor  market.  I  was  still  myself.  I  could  still  imagine 
myself  a  manicurist  with  the  assistance  of  madame,  but  I 
couldn't  easily  find  a  post  without  assistance.  All  January 
passed  like  that,  and  it  was  not  until  February  that  I  made 
further  efforts.  I  think  that  was  due  to  Julian's  attitude. 
Not  a  word  had  been  said  about  "Dick,"  but  he  was  sensitive 
enough  to  know  that  there  was  something  wrong  and  to 
connect  it  with  our  stay  at  Notley.  His  conscience  pointed 
to  "Dick."  We  did  not  discuss  "Dick,"  and  indeed  lived 
our  ordinary  lives,  dining  out  and  meeting  the  same  people, 
talking  of  business  and  of  new  clients.  I  behaved  exactly 
like  a  wife,  and  did  not  even  repel  his  caresses.  But  they  grew 
less  and  less  frequent,  and  it  is  evidence  of  my  new  detach- 
ment that  I  did  not  much  care.  I  supposed  that  he  was 


324  URSULA   TRENT 

running  "Dick"  somewhere,  but  I  couldn't  be  bothered. 
Now  and  then  I  wondered  why  he  stuck  to  me.  I  have  never 
quite  sorted  that  out,  but  I  believe  there  was  a  double 
reason.  One  was  that  he  liked  me,  all  right,  and  that  he 
wanted  a  woman  to  live  in  his  flat.  I  did  very  well;  probably 
he  wasn't  sure  that  "Dick"  or  another  would  do  as  well. 
He  liked  my  way  of  speaking,  dressing,  behaving  with  his 
friends.  His  wardrobe  and  I  did  very  well  and  he  kept  us. 
The  second  reason  was  probably  that  he  had  experience  of 
my  rages,  and  that  he  was  afraid  to  turn  me  out.  He  didn't 
know  how  to  do  it.  I  can  see  no  other  reason,  but  there  may 
be  many.  Nothing  is  so  complex  as  a  man,  nothing  so  de- 
ceptive; women  do  know  what  they  want,  but  a  man  gen- 
erally varnishes  all  that  over  with  "good  form,"  "decency," 
or  "what  is  right  and  proper."  I  don't  believe  there's  a  con- 
vict in  Dartmoor  who  has  not  the  thickest  moral  illusions. 
The  women  in  Holloway  Gaol  must  be  very  different. 

I  remembered  what  Susie  and  Mabel  had  told  me:  "If 
you  want  a  job  go  round  and  knock  at  doors."  I  often 
knocked  in  February.  I  went  to  well  over  a  dozen  manicure 
shops,  but  I  didn't  get  taken  on.  One  very  fast  place  told 
me  I  looked  too  ladylike  for  their  kind  of  trade.  Two  of 
the  respectable  places  insisted  on  a  reference,  and  I  was  too 
shy,  too  conscious  of  my  past,  to  refer  them  to  Denman 
Street.  The  other  places  were  overcrowded.  One  woman 
said  to  me:  "Years  ago  every  girl  wanted  to  go  on  the  stage. 
A  good  many  of  them  still  do,  and  there  are  those  who  want 
to  go  on  the  film.  But  there  are  some  who  are  too  stupid 
for  the  stage  and  the  film,  though  you  mightn't  believe  it, 
and  they  go  manicuring.  I  should  say  that  over  a  hundred 
of  the  girls  who  didn't  win  a  prize  in  that  thing  of  the  Daily 
Mail's,  'The  Golden  Apple,'  have  come  along  here." 

Most  of  the  shops  turned  me  down  without  listening  to 
me.  There  was  a  crisis  in  the  manicure  world  just  then, 
because  the  demobed  officers  had  spent  their  gratuities. 
Manicuring  was  suffering,  together  with  the  theater  and  other 
minor  amusements.  I  thought  I  would  stick  to  it,  that  I 
would  knock  at  every  door,  and  I  even  went  so  far  as  to  enter 


WAYS  TO  FREEDOM  325 

a  little  barber's  shop  in  Camden  Town  to  suggest  that  they 
should  start  manicuring.  (Very  enterprising  of  me.)  But 
when  I  saw  the  Balkanic  attendants,  the  greasy  marble, 
when  they  stared  at  me,  the  three  of  them,  with  their  black 
eyes  set  in  cheeks  that  looked  like  lard,  Ursula  Trent  over- 
came Ursula  Quin.  I  pretended  to  have  made  a  mistake  and 
to  have  thought  that  they  did  waving. 

So  it  accorded  well  enough  with  my  temperament  that 
at  last  I  gave  in  and  went  to  Satterthwaite  to  ask  if  he  could 
find  me  a  job  of  some  sort.  We  ladies,  we're  so  damned  soft. 
He  seemed  very  surprised. 

"But  what  do  you  want  a  job  for?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  I  haven't  much  to  do.  Julian's  out  all  day  and 
I've  got  no  children." 

"No,"  said  Satterthwaite,  sympathetically,  "it  must 
have  been  a  great  grief  to  you,  Little  Bear,  to  lose  your 
little  one."  He  mourned  for  a  while;  the  dear  old  man,  like 
all  of  his  race,  adored  children.  Esther  was  very  satisfactory 
now.  She  had  begun  with  twins,  and  this  seemed  to  have 
cured  her  of  the  last  vestige  of  socialism.  But  he  returned 
to  my  affairs. 

"Aren't  you  happy,  Little  Bear?  I  don't  want  to  ask 
you  questions  if  you  don't  want  to  answer,  but  as  I  listen  to 
you  I  say  to  myself:  'Little  Bear's  got  everything  in  the  world. 
What  she  want  to  go  to  work  all  day  for  two  quid  a  week?' 
I  say  to  myself,  'There's  something  wrong.'" 

"  Yes,  there  is.  I  wonder  whether  you'd  be  very,  very  nice 
to  me." 

"Anything  in  the  world,"  and  the  podgy  hands  were 
spread  out  in  confirmation. 

"Well,  don't  ask  me  any  questions." 

He  promised,  and  he  tried  very  hard  to  ask  no  questions. 
He  began  by  discussing  whether  I'd  do  for  the  film,  but  he 
feared  my  features  would  be  too  small.  He  tried  to  make  me 
laugh  by  asking  me  how  I'd  like  to  make  up  bright  yellow? 
And  between  these  remarks  he  interposed:  "I  say  it's  a  shame 
that  Quin  shouldn't  make  you  happy.  But,  ah !  he  did  me  a 
good  turn,  and,  anyhow,  I  mustn't  talk  about  that."  Or 


326  URSULA   TRENT 

again:  "I  do  think  it's  a  shame  you  have  to  work.  You 
ought  to  be  kept  in  a  conservatory  with  the  orchids.  Ah! 
It  does  make  me  angry  to  think  he's  not  acting  proper  to 
you.  But  don't  mind  me;  I  don't  want  to  ask  questions." 

I  had  to  laugh  at  him,  and  at  last  to  tell  him  a  little. 
Satterthwaite  was  in  great  difficulties,  because  he  wanted 
to  sympathize  with  me,  yet  did  not  want  to  run  down  the 
man  who  had  helped  him.  That,  perhaps,  eventually  stopped 
his  questions.  "Well,"  he  said,  "I'll  see  what  I  can  do. 
We  might  try  you  for  the  film,  though  I'm  not  very  hopeful. 
I'll  speak  to  Lockwood.  You  wouldn't  mind  walking  on, 
would  you?" 

"Oh  no.  Anything.  I  only  want  to  make  a  little  money. 
Then  I  could  get  away." 

"Oh,"  said  Satterthwaite,  "you  want  to  go  away,  right 
away  from  here!"  He  looked  so  sorrowful  that  I  smiled. 

"I  don't  mean  go  away  from  London.  Only  away  from 
Julian.  You  see,  he  and  I  ...  oh,  there's  no  harm  in  telling 
you.  We're  not  married." 

"I  know." 

"Do  you?  It  was  nice  of  you  not  to  say  so.  And  I  can't 
stay  with  him  any  more.  You  can  guess  why." 

"That's  bad." 

"If  only  I  could  make  three  pounds  a  week,  or  even  two 
pounds  ten." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  his  brown  eyes  very  soft  upon 
me.  He  seemed  to  be  making  an  effort,  for  he  got  very  hot 
and  fanned  himself  with  one  of  the  khaki  handkerchiefs  he 
had  left  over  from  the  war,  when  he  was  a  major  in  charge 
of  camp  theaters.  Then,  with  a  gulp,  "Mrs.  Quin  ...  I 
mean,  Little  Bear — do  you  ever  think  about  getting  mar- 
ried?" 

"Of  course  I  do.    Every  girl  does,  I  suppose." 

"Ah!  but  you  took  the  wrong  turning.  No!  I  don't  mean 
that.  Anyhow,  what  is  bygones  is  bygones.  Do  you  feel 
like  it,  supposing  Mr.  Right  came  along?" 

I  grew  embarrassed  and  tried  to  get  up,  but  he  detained  me. 

"Look  here,  Little  Bear,"  he  said,  "why  don't  you  marry 


WAYS   TO  FREEDOM  327 

toe?"  I  was  just  going  to  snub  him  when,  with  sudden 
softness,  he  added:  "I  fell  in  love  with  you  that  day,  more 
than  a  year  ago,  when  Quin  brought  you  up  to  see  me  here. 
And  I've  been  thinking  of  you  all  the  time  since." 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you,  but  ..." 

"Oh,  I  know  I  haven't  got  the  looks  of  Douglas  Fairbanks. 
More  like  poor  old  Pimple,  but  I've  got  a  good  heart.  Got 
a  lot  of  money  too,  just  now."  He  saw  that  I  was  stung. 
"I  know  that  don't  matter  to  you,  Little  Bear,  you're  not 
that  sort.  But  one's  got  to  have  money.  Can't  be  helped. 
And  my  children  are  all  grown  up,  so  you'll  have  no  worry." 

For  a  moment  I  hesitated.  It  seems  extraordinary,  for 
Satterthwaite  was  almost  too  common  for  our  set,  but  he 
was  so  entirely  honest,  and  he  moved  me.  He  must  have 
felt  that,  for  he  pressed  his  advantage. 

"I  know  you  can't  be  in  love  with  me.  It's  too  late.  No- 
body was  in  love  with  me  since  my  poor  Rebecca.  But  I'll 
do  anything  you  want.  Just  get  married  and  ask  nothing 
more.  You'll  have  your  flat;  I  have  my  house.  Sometimes 
you  come  and  have  tea  with  me."  His  voice  grew  husky, 
"Just  to  make  you  happy." 

I  couldn't  say  "yes."  It  would  have  been  .  .  .  ridiculous, 
but  I  was  very  fond  of  him,  and  so  I  promised  that,  though 
I  couldn't  marry  him,  sometimes  I'd  come  and  have  tea 
with  him  all  the  same. 

ra 

Nothing  happened  for  a  time.  Julian  must  have  known 
that  I  was  looking  for  work,  for  Satterthwaite  couldn't  keep 
his  tongue  still;  little  by  little  the  news  must  have  reached 
Julian.  I  suppose  he  didn't  care.  Besides,  now  he  went  out 
alone  almost  every  night,  and  sometimes  came  back  very 
late,  without  even  saying  that  he'd  been  to  a  business  dinner. 
So  I  went  again  to  see  Satterthwaite,  who  so  far  could  not 
find  me  a  job.  Things  had  been  frightful  in  the  theatrical 
world;  plays  had  come  down  in  bunches;  rents  had  crashed. 
Now  the  times  were  getting  worse.  Everybody  was  cautious, 
and  there  were  few  expensive  productions,  therefore  poor 


328  URSULA   TRENT 

opportunities  for  show  girls.  But  he  was  still  looking  out. 
I  suppose  I  could  have  increased  my  chances  by  talking  to 
Lockwood  or  to  Karl  Meerbrook,  but  I  couldn't  bear  it. 
I'd  have  to  tell  my  story  to  people  who  knew  it.  They'd 
insist  on  having  it  out  of  me,  just  to  see  me  squirm.  So,  in- 
stead, I  relied  only  on  Satterthwaite,  and  began  a  habit  of 
taking  tea  at  his  office  every  Wednesday.  This  could  hardly 
be  misunderstood. 

One  Wednesday,  as  I  left  a  little  early,  because  Satter- 
thwaite had  an  appointment,  I  found  that  the  stab-case  was 
temporarily  blocked  up  by  two  cases.  They  were  being 
brought  up  by  perspiring  workmen,  worried  by  a  hoarse 
foreman,  behind  whom  stood,  in  a  black  coat  spattered  with 
dust  and  dirt,  a  familiar  figure — it  was  Alec  Brough.  For  a 
moment  I  wondered  what  he  was  doing  there,  then  remem- 
bered that  Lord  Alfred  had  engaged  him  because  he  was 
Satterthwaite's  architect.  I  remembered,  too,  that  the  old 
man  was  delighted  with  the  alterations  that  were  being  made 
in  the  next  house,  which  he  was  going  to  combine  with  his 
picture  house. 

We  stared  at  each  other  for  a  moment  across  the  struggle 
on  the  stairs,  smiling  recognition.  It  was  several  minutes 
before  the  cases  got  past  my  landing,  and  so  I  had  time  to 
review  my  impressions. 

It  was  queer,  looking  across  like  that  at  some  one  so 
familiar,  not  being  able  to  talk  to  him,  and  thus  compelled 
to  enter  the  recesses  of  one's  personality  while  presumably 
he  did  the  same.  I  had  time  to  remember  nearly  everything 
that  had  passed  between  us,  to  analyze  my  feelings,  time 
enough  to  tie  myself  up  completely  between  the  emotion 
of  gladness  and  that  of  disturbance.  As  I  watched  him,  still 
behind  the  obstruction,  unimpatient  and  very  dirty,  I  asked 
myself  whether  I  liked  him  much  or  very  much.  I  wouldn't 
own  up  to  myself  that  I  was  excited  rather  than  glad. 

At  last  the  cases  were  heaved  past  me.  Brough  had  fol- 
lowed them  step  by  step,  and  the  first  thing  he  said  was 
characteristic  of  him.  As  he  shook  hands  he  looked  down 
at  the  steps  where  the  cases  had  done  some  damage,  and 


WAYS  TO  FREEDOM  329 

remarked:  "Architecture's  a  fine  trade.  While  it's  finishing 
one  job  it  creates  another.  I'm  afraid,  though,  the  builder 
will  repair  this  on  his  own.  Since  I'm  interfering  with 
the  builder,  I  ought  to  have  seen  to  it  that  we  brought 
the  whole  house  down."  Then,  with  a  sudden  change  of 
mood:  "How  are  you,  Mrs.  Quin?  I've  not  seen  you  for  a 
long  time." 

"No.    Three  months,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  since  Notley.    Well,  how's  life?" 

"Oh,  life!    A  set  of  samples,  don't  you  think?" 

"Quite  so.  But  some  are  good."  As  I  did  not  reply,  he 
went  on:  "Life's  all  right  when  one's  got  something  to  do 
or  somebody  one's  fond  of.  The  latter's  the  bigger  job." 
Again  his  mood  changed  as  he  looked  at  his  wrist  watch. 
"Five  o'clock.  What  about  tea?" 

I  hesitated.  I  realized  that  to  say  "yes"  would  be  sig- 
nificant, though  I  might  safely  have  said  "yes"  to  a  dozen 
acquaintances.  So  I  said,"  Yes,"  and  rather  excitedly  waited 
for  two  or  three  minutes  while  he  ran  upstairs  to  wash, 
and  brush  his  coat. 

We  went  into  a  small,  underground  teashop  that  called 
itself,  I  think,  "The  Wigwam"  and  was  got  up  with  painted 
canvas,  spears,  feathered  headdresses.  Inside  each  cubicle 
were  hung  up  horribly  realistic  scalps.  "You  know  what 
they're  for?"  said  Alec  Brough.  "They  enable  the  young 
fellows  who  come  here  to  tell  the  girls  that  they  can  have 
their  own." 

I  laughed,  but  he  embarrassed  me.  So  square  and  good- 
humored,  so  pleasing,  in  a  way,  with  his  incredibly  close- 
clipped  hair  and  mustache;  he  was  got  up  like  a  solid  man 
of  business,  and  yet  I  found  him  artistic,  philosophic.  So 
different  from  people  like  Meerbrook  and  Arf  a  Mo',  who 
certainly  were  clever,  but  carried  all  their  cleverness  on  the 
surface.  Alec  Brough  was  almost  artificially  simple.  The 
others  were  rather  like  Asprey's  windows — Brough  was  like 
the  Bank  of  England.  He  made  such  an  impression  on  me, 
that,  instead  of  slipping  into  easy  acquaintanceship,  I 
plunged  .  .  .  no,  I  didn't  plunge,  I  fell  from  thousands  of 


330  URSULA   TRENT 

feet  into  an  abyss  of  intimacy.    Like  a  flapper  just  out  of 

Wycdean,  I  blurted: 

"Mr.  Satterthwaite  asked  me  to  marry  him." 

"Oh,"  he  replied,  without  any  sign  of  surprise.     "Going 

to  have  him?" 

"How  can  you  be  so  absurd?    Why,  he's  fifty!" 

"Yes.     He's  fifty  and  not  pretty,"  said  Brough.    Then, 

with  a  judicial  air  that  infuriated  me:  "But  he's  a  good  chap. 

I've  had  to  do  with  him  for  two  years,  and  he's  straight. 

You  might  do  better.    You  might  do  worse." 

I  was  very  annoyed.    He  wanted  to  tuck  me  up.    He  was 

sorry  for  me  and  wanted  to  save  me  from  a  cruel  world.     I 

felt  like  a  Christian  found  unfit  for  the  lions.    I  said  so  with 

some  heat. 

"Oh,"  he  replied,  on  his  defense,  "have  it  as  you  like. 

I  don't  want  you  to  marry  him.    I'd  rather  . . ."    He  stopped 

and  I  blushed.    But  his  tact  carried  him  on.       "You  see, 

the  world's  a  difficult  place  for  a  pretty  woman.    Looks  have 

their  value,  but  only  one  sort  of  value.    Looks  are  a  wasting 


"What's  a  wasting  asset?" 

"An  asset  that  goes  down  in  value  year  by  year  as  you  use 
it.  Like  a  mine,  or  a  car.  You  can  put  up  a  sinking  fund  to 
redeem  the  cost  of  your  car,  or  the  value  of  your  mine,  but 
there's  no  sinking  fund  that  will  get  you  back  the  velvet  of 
your  cheek,  the  olive  marble  of  your  neck,  or  the  sleepy 
topaz  of  your  eyes." 

After  a  moment  I  said:  "I  don't  know  what  you're  talking 
about.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  redeeming,  nor  by 
a  sinking  fund,  but  men  always  talk  like  that.  They  like  to 
say  things  we  don't  understand,  because  they  like  to  think  us 
silly.  We  don't  mind."  I  discovered  with  surprise  that  I 
was  flu-ting  with  him. 

As  he  remarked  half  to  himself,  "Poor  old  Satterthwaite! 
he's  absurd,"  it  suddenly  struck  me  that  I'd  blurted  out  this 
proposal  to  a  man  who  was  supposed  to  think  me  married  to 
Julian.  I,  always  on  my  guard,  had  done  this !  What  could 
he  be  thinking?  I'd  given  myself  away,  and  I  didn't  dare 


WAYS   TO  FREEDOM  331 

to  inquire  what  he  thought.  My  immediate  impulse  was  to 
drop  the  subject,  and  to  ask  him,  as  we  ate  the  deceptive 
postwar  chocolates,  which  are  all  hard  nougat  inside  and 
only  filmed  with  sweet  softness,  to  explain  how  he  was 
extending  the  picture  house;  how  an  ordinary  dwelling 
could  be  worked  in?  He  took  my  bait,  and  for  a  while  the 
conversation  stayed  safe.  Alec  Brough  extended  his  girders, 
underpinned  the  basement,  and  inserted  concrete  floors. 
But  he  must  have  realized  that  he  was  being  played,  for  he, 
too,  bolted  from  his  subject  and  said: 

"I  mustn't  talk  shop.  How  is  it  you  came  to  consider 
marrying  Satterthwaite?" 

Oh  dear,  oh  dear,  he'd  got  it  all.  Well,  I  must  face  it. 
"I  don't  know." 

"How  do  you  mean,  you  don't  know?  He  wouldn't  have 
proposed  to  you  if  he  didn't  think  he  could  marry  you." 

Shame  and  misery  were  too  much  for  me.  I  was  being 
exposed;  we  sea  anemones  of  the  home  counties,  we  hate 
being  exposed.  We  get  under  stones  before  the  tide  goes 
down.  I  wanted  to  tell  him  to  mind  his  own  business,  and 
instead  I  began  to  cry.  He  let  me  alone,  but  suddenly  it 
occurred  to  me  that  he  must  be  getting  used  to  see  me  cry. 
So  I  stopped  and  smiled  moistly.  Then  he  leaned  across  to 
me,  so  near  that  I  could  see  the  various  colors  in  his  eyes. 
He  looked  strong  and  protective — more  like  a  rock  than  a 
sea  anemone. 

"Don't  cry  ...  Ursula.  I  let  you  cry  the  other  time 
because  it  did  you  good.  To-day  you're  only  being  self- 
indulgent." 

"Perhaps  I  am." 

"Then  you've  had  enough  debauchery  for  one  day,  don't 
you  think?  Why  not  be  open  to  me?  Don't  you  like  me?" 

"I  suppose  I  do." 

"Well,  then!  Tell  me  what's  the  matter.  Supposing  I 
understand,  won't  it  be  better  for  you  to  tell  me  yourself?" 

I  did  not  reply.  He  was  subtle,  in  a  way.  If  I  told  him, 
then  I  need  not  know  that  the  talk  of  the  town  had  carried 
my  affairs  to  his  ears.  So,  in  a  few  hurried  words,  feeling 
22 


332  URSULA   TRENT 

red  and  hot  about  the  ears,  I  told  him  that  I  was  living  with 
Julian,  that  I  wasn't  happy,  that  I  wanted  to  leave  him,  and 
must  find  something  to  do.  He  meant  to  be  kind,  but  he 
was  brutal,  as  men  are,  just  out  of  clumsiness. 

"What  use  are  you?  Women  aren't  educated.  Can  you 
draw?" 

"No." 

"Pity.  So  you  can't  be  a  draftsman  in  my  office.  What 
about  the  stage?  What  can  you  do?  Dance?" 

"Only  the  usual  sort." 

"No  good.    Sing?" 

"No." 

"Acted  a  bit?" 

"Yes,  in  private  theatricals.     I  didn't  do  very  well." 

"Well,  what  can  you  do,  then?" 

"I  .  .  ."  No,  I  wasn't  going  to  tell  him  I'd  been  a  mani- 
curist. "I  was  a  nurse  during  the  war." 

"There  are  forty  thousand  of  you  looking  for  jobs." 

"I  can  do  typing  and  shorthand,"  I  said,  aggressively. 

"That's  better.    How  long  is  it  since  you  did  any?" 

"Two  years." 

"You  must  be  pretty  rotten  by  now.  But  you  might  pick 
it  up  again." 

He  humiliated  me  horribly.  He  was  making  clear  what  I 
knew  already,  that  a  woman  can  scratch  up  a  living  but  not 
a  future,  and  that  the  only  job  she  is  really  fit  for  is  to  be  a 
man's  keep,  legal  or  illegal,  permanent  or  temporary.  Still, 
he  meant  to  be  kind.  After  a  while  we  went  out,  and,  as  we 
happened  to  turn  to  the  left,  I  followed  him  up  Charing 
Cross  Road,  and  through  filthy  little  streets  off  Tottenham 
Court  Road,  where  they  sold  iron,  oranges,  and  blue  foreign 
meat,  until  finally  we  reached  the  broad  spaces  of  Regent's 
Park.  They  weren't  really  broad  spaces,  for  by  now  it  was 
half  past  six  and  the  gates  were  closed.  So  we  walked  round 
and  round  the  Inner  Circle,  not  a  romantic  promenade. 
He  talked  of  a  good  many  things  and  we  came  to  some  sort 
of  intimacy.  I  understood  him  better  now.  He  was  entirely 
devoted  to  his  work,  and  wanted  to  create  a  new  architec- 


WAYS   TO  FREEDOM  333 

tural  style.  He  had  spoken  of  this  at  Walmer,  and  now  told 
me  his  ideas  all  over  again,  which  showed  how  persistent 
they  were.  He  seemed  to  think  that  the  pursuit  of  art  was 
an  affair  so  exacting  that  it  left  little  time  for  anything  else. 
And  architecture  was  an  art.  I  came  upon  some  secret 
irritations. 

"I  know  what  you  think,"  he  said,  gruffly.  "You're  like 
the  rest.  You  think  we  architects,  we're  a  lot  of  builders. 
Putting  a  brick  on  the  top  of  another,  and  a  bit  of  slate  on 
the  top,  and  there's  a  house.  You  think  we  need  no  ideas, 
no  sense  of  beauty,  that  we  just  make  your  beastly  dormi- 
tories, and  the  beastly  town  halls  where  your  rate  collectors 
live."  He  stopped,  for  the  first  time  since  I  knew  him,  made 
a  gesture  toward  Bedford  College  that  I  thought  unoffending. 
"That!  I  hope  it  '11  burn  down.  It  would  be  lovely  to  see 
the  Houses  of  Parliament  and  their  bastard  nineteenth-cen- 
tury Gothic  in  flames,  and  to  see  the  flames  trickling  all  over 
the  Elizabethan  villas  of  the  suburbs,  and  Mr.  Willett's 
George  IV  erections,  built  last  week.  I  wish  the  lightning  'd 
come  down  and  destroy  every  building,  picture,  piece  of 
sculpture,  toby  jug,  that  was  made  before  the  war.  If  I 
were  king,  whenever  an  artist  died,  I'd  have  his  work  burned 
in  Trafalgar  Square.  The  dead  are  stifling  the  living. 
Painters,  architects,  all  of  us,  we're  poisoned  by  the  stinking 
fumes  that  come  out  of  the  corpses  of  Raphael  and  Rem- 
brandt. I'd  like  to  empty  the  tripe  shop  of  art  of  all  the 
tripe  that  is  called  Romney,  and  Constable,  and  Whistler, 
and  Turner,  and  all  that  bilge." 

"Surely  you  don't  call  Turner  bilge!" 

"No,  of  course  I  don't.  What  I  mean  is  that  so  long  as 
the  public  go  on  crawling  before  the  old  arts,  so  long  will  we 
have  no  chance  for  the  arts  of  to-day.  In  Botticelli's  time 
people  didn't  swarm  over  Cimbue  and  Giotto.  Nowadays 
you  call  no  man  an  artist  until  he  is  dead.  You  make  me 
sick." 

"I  say,"  I  remarked,  "what  have  I  done?" 

He  looked  at  me  more  amiably.  "Oh,  nothing,  but  you're 
like  the  rest,  I  suppose.  A  lot  of  art  murderers.  If  we  build 


334  URSULA   TRENT 

a  church  to-day,  we've  got  to  build  it  in  the  fifteenth-century 
style.  The  Methodists  are  running  up  Gothic  in  galvanized- 
iron  sheeting.  I'd  galvanize  them — with  a  bomb.  Copy, 
copy,  always  copy!  Self  ridge  in  decadent  Greco -Roman, 
Warings  in  intoxicated  English  Renaissance,  Burberry's  is 
better — there's  less  of  it.  A  man  asked  me,  the  other  day, 
to  build  him  a  house  in  Sussex.  It's  to  be  Tudor.  My  God ! 
Tudor!  I  asked  whether  he'd  have  a  Tudor  umbrella  stand 
in  the  hall.  He  said  it  wasn't  a  bad  idea,  and  what  did  I 
think  of  having  it  made  of?  Porcelain  or  stone?" 

I  laughed.  He  shocked  me,  because  I  felt  the  reverence 
of  my  class  for  Raphael,  and  Romney,  and  all  the  pictures  in 
the  museums  that  we  never  go  to  see,  except  at  the  age  of 
fifteen,  when  we  are  run  round  by  force  by  a  schoolmistress. 
And  I  felt  superstitious  reverence  for  old  buildings,  with 
their  draughts,  the  little  windows  that  let  in  no  air,  and 
then-  sanitation  as  Elizabethan  as  their  outside.  But,  per- 
haps because  he  moved  me,  I  did  understand  that  the  worship 
of  the  old  arts  deprives  the  new  arts  of  then-  chance. 

"I'm  a  futurist,"  he  declared,  violently.  "A  futurist 
without  a  future." 

I  comforted  him.  I  didn't  like  to  think  he  hadn't  got  a 
future.  Also  I  was  stirred  by  the  fact  that  for  the  first  time 
he  had  made  a  speech  to  me.  A  woman  would  have  made 
that  speech  long  ago.  Suddenly  he  dropped  the  arts  and  his 
excitement  subsided.  "Look  here,"  he  said,  "I've  been 
thinking.  It  seems  to  me  the  best  thing  you  can  do  is  to  do 
some  typing  to  get  you  into  it  again.  I've  written  a  book." 
He  gulped.  "I  don't  mean  that.  I've  just  slapped  some 
ideas  together.  I'm  going  to  call  it  An  English  Architecture: 
Why  Not?  I'm  thinking  of  giving  it  a  preface  entitled 
'About  Damn  Fools  and  Others.  (If  There  Are  Any.)'  Per- 
haps they  won't  print  the  preface,  but  would  you  like  to  type 
the  stuff?" 

"I'd  love  to,  but  I  haven't  got  a  machine.  I  suppose  I 
could  get  the  money." 

"  Yes !  '  the  twelve-pound  look.'  Sorry,  nowadays  it's  more 
like  the  fifty-pound  look.  But  there's  a  machine  in  my  office. 


WAYS   TO  FREEDOM  335 

Beyond  the  fact  that  the  tension's  out  of  order,  and  that  the 
ratchet  is  so  worn  that  the  roller  slips  a  line  when  it  fancies, 
it  isn't  bad.  Suppose  I  lend  it  you." 

I  remained  thoughtful.  Certainly  this  was  the  thing  to 
do,  to  practice  a  little.  And  I  could  go  back  to  sermons  and 
lectures  to  get  up  my  shorthand.  But  how  would  Julian 
take  my  typing?  One  couldn't  hide  a  typewriter  in  one's 
dressing  case.  Also  the  subject  matter  would  immediately 
bring  up  his  memories  of  Alec  Brough.  It  is  significant  of 
my  state  of  mind  that,  without  analyzing  too  much,  I  didn't 
want  Julian  to  talk  of  Mr.  Brough. 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  don't  think  that  would  quite  do.  You 
see,  at  Dover  Street  I've  got  so  little  room." 

"I  didn't  mean  that.  Come  and  do  the  stuff  at  my  office. 
Nice  and  quiet.  There's  only  the  draftsman  and  a  decayed 
person  who  failed  as  a  quantity  surveyor,  but  he's  handy. 
And  the  office  boy." 

The  idea  of  going  to  his  office  was  pleasing.  So  business-1 
like.  "All  right,"  I  said.  "Mornings  would  be  best." 

"Whenever  you  like.  I'm  not  in  a  hurry,  since  the  book 
won't  be  published  at  all.  There's  about  sixty  thousand 
words  of  it,  I  should  say.  Some  of  it  on  old  envelopes;  the 
best  parts  on  bits  of  newspaper.  Just  ideas,  you  know.  You 
may  be  able  to  read  some  of  it.  I  want  three  copies.  I'll 
give  you  .  .  .  one  and  ninepence  a  thousand." 

"Oh,  that's  too  much.    Agencies  '11  .  .  ." 

"Nonsense!  Besides,  you'll  supply  your  own  paper  and 
carbons."  We  made  terms.  I  did  not  allow  myself  to  be 
pleased  with  anything  except  with  the  idea  that  I  would 
earn  five  or  six  pounds  while  I  recovered  my  old  craft. 


IV 

It  took  me  rather  a  long  time  to  transcribe  Mr.  Brough's 
MS.  It  was  frightful  stuff.  Not  only  was  some  of  it  in- 
coherent with  rage,  not  only  did  it  abound  with  savage 
references  to  Sir  William  Richmond,  with  lengthy  assaults 


336  URSULA   TRENT 

on  Professor  Lethaby,  but  there  were  incomprehensible 
passages  about  Aston  Webbs  that  let  them  grow  between 
their  fingers.  As  for  Sir  Ernest  George,  I  do  not  yet  know 
how  the  animosity  arose.  I  told  the  author  that,  if  the  book 
was  published,  he  would  probably  have  to  pay  thousands  of 
pounds  in  damages  for  libel,  but  he  merely  replied  that  it 
would  be  worth  it.  Anyhow,  the  technical  words  were  fright- 
ful; the  writing  began  well,  but  grew  inspired  with  passion 
toward  the  middle  of  the  page.  I  never  did  more  than  two 
thousand  words  in  a  morning. 

I  was  a  little  nervous  at  first.  The  draftsman  clearly 
looked  upon  me  as  a  danger,  because  he  did  the  small  amount 
of  typing  that  we  required.  The  decayed  quantity  surveyor 
was  easier,  because  an  unhappy  life  had  trained  him  to  having 
horror  accumulated  upon  horror's  head.  Bert,  the  office  boy, 
began  familiar,  and  related  his  love  affairs,  located  near  St. 
Pancras,  until  I  informed  him  that  small  boys  sometimes  had 
their  heads  smacked.  I  was  so  much  larger  than  he  that  he 
took  this  seriously;  he  then  became  my  friend,  renewed  my 
blotting  paper  before  I  needed  it,  and  even  put  hi  a  ribbon 
for  me.  More  than  that  man  cannot  do  for  woman. 

I  had  rather  nervously  anticipated  that  Mr.  Brough 
would  be  a  good  deal  in  the  office.  It  would  be  nice.  It 
would  be  rather  exciting.  But,  no;  during  the  first  week  he 
came  in  once,  asked  me  how  I  was  getting  on,  walked  out 
after  telling  me  to  count  up  the  words  at  the  end  of  the  week 
and  leave  a  note  on  his  desk.  I  did  this,  and  on  the  Tues- 
day found  in  an  envelope  a  postal  order  for  seventeen  and 
six.  Next  day,  however,  I  was  shifted  into  a  small  room 
which  contained  many  rolls  of  paper  and  plans  and  great 
masses  of  dirt.  Alec  Brough  came  in  and  told  me  that  I'd 
been  shifted  out  because  the  noise  of  the  typewriter  disturbed 
the  old  quantity  surveyor. 

"He's  had  a  hard  life,  you  see,  and  his  nerves  aren't  as 
good  as  they  were."  He  sat  down  upon  a  packing  case. 
He  looked  very  nice.  Funny!  I  didn't  mind  his  being  in 
gray  tweeds  as  much  as  I  used  to.  They  were  rather  nice 
tweeds.  Julian  generally  wore  blue.  Well,  gray  suited  some 


WAYS  TO  FREEDOM  337 

people.  I  thought  no  more  of  it,  for  he  stayed  and  talked 
with  me  for  half  an  hour.  I  was  less  shy  now,  and  told  him 
more  clearly  the  causes  of  my  trouble.  He  listened  to  the 
end  while  I  hinted  at  Julian's  infidelities,  but  he  was  tactful 
enough  to  say  nothing  against  him.  Indeed  he  half  pleaded 
for  him. 

"Well,  you  know,  there  are  lots  of  men  who  don't  take 
these  things  quite  as  seriously  as  you  do.  They  may  be  very 
fond  of  a  girl  and  gad  about.  All  the  same,  mind  you,  I'm 
not  sticking  up  for  him." 

"It  sounds  very  like  it.    Men  always  stick  up  for  men." 

"To  run  other  men  down  is  an  easy  way  to  please  a 
woman  who  thinks  she  has  cause  for  complaint  against  one 
of  them." 

"You  want  me  to  marry  Mr.  Satterthwaite,"  I  said,  hug- 
ging my  wrongs. 

"No.  All  I  said  was  I  was  sorry  for  old  Satterthwaite. 
And  it's  so  difficult  to  do  anything  for  him.  A  man  can't 
comfort  another  man;  we're  too  gawky.  Women  help 
women  better  than  men  help  men,  because  they  let  them- 
selves go,  and  after  they've  had  a  regular  dancing-dervish 
scene  they  powder  their  noses  and  feel  better.  When  men 
want  to  cry  the  hemorrhage  is  internal." 

"I'm  very  fond  of  Mr.  Satterthwaite,  but  it's  too  much." 

"I  know,  I  know.  The  only  thing  that  can  help  him  is 
love.  It's  the  only  thing  anybody  can  give  anybody." 

I  grew  grave,  and  after  a  little  while  he  went  away.  I 
went  on  like  this  to  the  end  of  May.  I  took  nearly  forty 
mornings  to  do  sixty  thousand  words.  I  was  bad,  and  the 
MS.  was  worse.  Also  Alec  Brough  took  to  reading  the 
transcribed  stuff,  and  to  altering  it  for  retyping  in  what 
looked  like  cipher.  As  a  result  we  saw  more  of  each  other, 
for  he  had  to  read  me  the  parts  I  couldn't  make  out.  Some- 
times he  couldn't  do  it  himself,  and,  now  that  time  has 
passed,  I  will  confess  that  as  the  days  went  on — mark  you, 
quite  unconsciously — I  struggled  rather  less  to  read  his 
writing.  Sometimes  he  had  to  bend  over  the  machine  to 
put  me  right,  and  once,  as  I  moved,  my  hair  touched  his 


338  URSULA   TRENT 

cheek.  I  moved  away  just  quickly  enough  to  see  that  he 
had  grown  pale.  Oh,  it's  the  eternal  office  comedy,  I  know, 
vulgarized  by  the  picture  postcard,  but  it  can  be  real  all  the 
same.  Before  those  weeks  were  over  I  was  becoming  sure 
of  two  things — that  he  mattered  to  me,  and  that  I  mattered 
to  him.  How  much?  In  what  way?  That  I  didn't  know. 
I  know  only  that  I  was  happier  than  I'd  been  for  a  long  time, 
that  the  memory  of  things  he  said  came  up  in  my  mind  when 
I  was  away  from  the  office,  that  sometimes  I  went  to  sleep 
thinking  of  him,  wondering  what  he  was  doing.  The  empti- 
ness of  my  relations  with  Julian  had,  I  think,  something  to 
do  with  it.  We  were  not  quarreling,  but  we  were  turning 
into  strangers,  and  held  together  only  by  our  interests.  He 
paid  my  way;  I  was  a  decoration  and  a  center  for  him; 
we  had  been  lovers,  and  now  we  might  as  well  have  been 
married.  No,  I  don't  mean  that,  for  now  .  .  .  but  things 
are  so  tangled. 

One  morning,  during  a  silence  on  the  part  of  Alec  Brough, 
I  suddenly  wanted  him  to  know  something  about  me.  When 
I  remember  that  revelation  I  do  so  no  longer  as  Ursula 
Trent,  but  as  a  wiser  young  woman,  knowing  what  that 
meant;  that  I  was  in  love  with  him  and  didn't  want  to  con- 
fess it.  For  lovers  always  want  to  tear  off  their  bodies  so 
that  the  other  may  see  their  souls.  Apropos  of  nothing,  I 
said,  "My  name's  not  Mrs.  Quin." 

"I  know." 

"I  know  you  know,  but  thank  you  for  not  letting  on. 
My  name's  Ursula  Trent.  My  people  live  in  Hampshire, 
at  a  place  you've  never  heard  of,  called  Burleigh  Abbas." 

"I  know.    Near  Basingalton." 

I  nearly  stopped  my  confidences.  I  could  tell  him  if  he 
didn't  know,  but  I  couldn't  if  he  did.  Fortunately  he  went 
on:  "I  don't  know  those  parts  well.  As  I  told  you,  I  gen- 
erally hunt  with  the  Heythrop,  but  once  or  twice  I've  had  a 
run  in  your  part  of  the  country.  The  meet  is  generally  at 
Strathfieldsaye.  Go  on." 

"Well,"  I  said,  gulping,  "I  think  you  ought  to  know. 
My  father  lives  at  a  place  called  Giber  Court." 


WAYS   TO  FREEDOM  339 

"Oh!    And  does  Mr.  Trent  know  .  .  .  your  troubles?" 

I  hesitated.  I  didn't  want  to  say  "My  father's  a  baronet," 
but  I  wanted  Alec  Brough  to  know  about  him.  So  I  grew 
irrelevant  and  said:  "Yes,  in  a  way.  I've  been  an  awful 
worry,  on  the  top  of  his  having  no  son.  You  see,  I've  only 
got  a  sister,  and  so  the  title  will  die  out  with  him." 

"Oh!  Let  me  see.  Trent?  I  know  the  name.  I  met  a 
fine-looking  man  once,  years  ago.  I  must  have  lunched  with 
him  somewhere  in  Hampshire.  Oh,  there  must  have  been 
forty  of  us.  What  was  his  name?  Sir  John  Trent?  No,  not 
John." 

"Sir  William  Trent." 

"Oh  yes!  how  silly  of  me!    He  wasn't  like  you." 

"No.    I  take  after  mamma." 

"I  suppose  you've  quarreled  with  them." 

"Yes."  I  told  him  a  great  deal,  and  he  took  it  all  with 
beautiful  naturalness.  He  had  the  quality  of  Doctor  Upnor, 
but  there  was  something  sturdier  about  his  mind.  He 
wouldn't  run  away.  I  knew  a  little  more  about  him,  too,  by 
now.  He  was  doing  pretty  well,  though  he  had  won  only 
one  big  competition;  but  he  was  specializing  on  domestic 
architecture. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  "that  people  say  there's  very  little  in 
it,  but  they're  wrong.  The  profiteers  all  want  houses,  and  it 
gives  one  a  chance.  After  all,  all  the  best  at  Canterbury  and 
Rye  and  Chester  is  domestic.  Even  the  court  halls  and  city 
halls  are  much  smaller  than  the  modern  elementary  school." 

Toward  the  end  we  talked  less  about  architecture  and 
more  about  life,  how  it  could  be  endured;  of  love,  how  it 
could  be  pursued.  I  pieced  together  that,  though  he  did  not 
pretend  to  innocence,  he  had  had  less  to  do  with  women 
than  most  men  of  his  age  and  attractions.  He  talked  in 
general,  and  I  remember  a  phrase:  "Women?  They  do  pro- 
vide a  certain  intellectual  stimulus  for  those  who  want  it. 
But,  on  the  whole,  a  man  who  wants  to  do  big  things  had 
better  keep  skirts  out  of  his  eyes.  Of  course,  I  speak  for 
myself;  I  don't  need  stimulus.  Hunt  and  draw;  keep  your 
body  hard  and  your  soul  soft,  that's  a  pretty  fair  program." 


340  URSULA   TRENT 

At  the  end  of  May  I  knew  that  I  was  a  woman  to  him,  but 
I  could  not  tell  whether  I  was  Woman.  I  suspected  that 
some  sense  of  fan*  play  prevented  him  approaching  me;  he 
couldn't  pursue  me  so  long  as  I  lived  with  another  man.  He 
wasn't  Satterthwaite;  the  kindness  of  his  heart  must  be 
restrained  by  the  harshness  of  his  sporting  rules.  What  was 
I  to  do?  I  wasn't  the  sort  of  woman  to  signal.  He  had  been 
good  to  me  when  I  was  broken  and  ugly;  now  he  hesitated 
to  love  me  when  I  had  recovered  such  beauty  as  I  have. 
What  was  I  to  do?  The  work  was  nearly  finished.  I  could 
take  my  chance  with  the  world  and  leave  Julian.  But  I 
might  lose  Alec  Brough,  too,  if  I  once  more  turned  into  a 
workinggirl,  too  busy  by  day  and  too  tired  at  night.  I  was 
too  old  for  that:  twenty-nine,  getting  on  for  thirty.  Some- 
thing I  began  to  confess  to  myself,  that  I  wholly  loved  him, 
that  he  brought  me  something  which  Julian  had  never  given 
me.  Julian  had  given  me  an  aesthetic  intoxication,  had  taught 
me  that  passionate  love  was  a  good  thing.  But  he  had  left 
my  mind  to  rust.  He  had  made  nothing  of  me.  This  man 
was  different.  He  differed  from  Julian  in  that  I  did  not  crave 
his  caresses.  He  left  me  physically  neutral,  but  I  wanted 
him  to  speak  to  me,  to  inflame  with  interest  a  mind  starving 
for  thought.  And  I  wanted  him  to  love  me,  so  that  I  might 
feel  justified  in  loving  him. 


Chapter  V 
Grand  Parade 


I  DON'T  know  why  I  call  this  chapter  "Grand  Parade." 
Perhaps  because  I  am  fond  of  the  horse  on  which  I  put 
a  shilling,  just  for  fun,  through  a  man  whose  name  I  forget. 
I  think  I  made  a  pound,  or  was  it  fifteen  shillings?  And  this 
part  of  my  life,  that  now  begins  in  renewed  misery,  ends  so 
equably  and  pleasant,  like  the  broad  gallop  of  a  horse  that 
knows  how  to  run. 

It  was  June,  London  June,  that  is  so  much  more  brilliant 
than  the  June  of  the  countryside.  There  merely  the  hedges 
are  blossoming  bright,  and  the  meadows  spangled.  Dust 
rises  in  the  silence  and  silently  settles.  But  in  London, 
London  in  June,  that  is  so  soft  and  pale,  yes,  pale  as  faded 
gold  brocade,  where  the  sun  falls  moderate  from  a  vault  of 
powder  blue,  where  in  Kensington  Gardens  the  untruthful, 
gaudy  flowers  affect  that  they  have  grown  in  the  beds  where 
they  are  set,  the  dahlias  are  wearing  the  clothes  of  the  London 
season,  the  men  are  pleased  with  their  white  spats,  and  the 
women  sun  their  skins  that  take  on  in  the  heat  the  tint  of  the 
camelia  through  a  veil  of  white  or  blue  ninon  that  veils  not. 
One  should  think  of  love,  just  then,  for  all  are  beautiful  and 
young;  no,  perhaps  not,  for  in  that  light  without  illusion 
we  must  exhibit  the  corruption  of  age.  That  is  fitting  when 
one's  twenty-nine. 

I  ought  to  have  been  happy,  but  was  not,  because  then  I 
precisely  wanted  something  that  was  not  refused,  yet  not 
offered  me.  In  the  first  days  of  that  month,  Satterthwaite 
found  me  a  job  as  shorthand  typist  in  a  film  renter's  office, 


542  URSULA   TRENT 

where  most  of  the  day  I  transcribed,  for  fifty  shillings  a  week, 
burlesque  correspondence.     Something  like  this: 

DEAK  IKE, — How  much  longer  are  you  going  to  monkey  about? 
You  know  quite  well  that  "The  Sweetness  of  Love"  is  the  goods. 
If  you  don't  get  it  released  to  us  before  the  loth,  you'll  skip.  See? 

Yours, 

ALF. 

They  were  an  extraordinary  crowd,  East  End  and  West 
End,  where  the  West  had  the  more  Easterly  ways.  There 
were  Americans  too,  but  they  were  the  best,  for  they  re- 
frained from  patting  one  on  the  shoulder,  and  almost  apolo- 
gized for  putting  a  lady  to  the  trouble  of  taking  down.  I 
didn't  get  all  the  fun  I  should  have  out  of  the  film  world; 
I  ought  to  have  laughed  at  the  demand  for  "good,  clean 
drama,  with  some  punch  in  it."  I  ought  to  have  laughed 
when  I  saw  my  chief  demanding  "the  heart  touch"  in  a  film 
that  was  attractive  but  cynical.  I  ought  to  have  rejoiced 
over  the  conversations  about  "big  human  stories,"  and  the 
general  atmosphere  of  "vim"  and  "zip."  I  did  laugh  now 
and  then.  Indeed,  I  nearly  offended  one  of  the  producers 
who  came  in  to  see  us,  because  he  complained  "that  we  knew 
how  to  hand  out  the  dope."  I  laughed  aloud.  I  learned  a 
lot  of  American,  and  amused  my  friends  by  calling  them 
"beauts,"  and  by  begging  them  "to  get  down  to  brass  tacks." 
Or  telling  them  a  story  that  "would  start  them  walking." 

But  I  didn't  get  full  value  out  of  this  world  of  wrung 
heartstrings,  broncho-busting,  screams  in  five  reels,  and 
drama  that  would  make  you  "fair  get  up  and  yelp."  The 
preoccupation  of  Alec  Brough  was  growing.  It  had  increased 
since  I  saw  him  less.  I  am  so  very  much  a  woman  that  I 
can  be  content,  fairly  content,  if  every  day  I  can  see  the  man 
I  care  for.  We  don't  ask  much  of  men;  we  don't  ask  them  to 
be  splendid  to  us;  we  want  them  only  to  be  splendid.  Just 
like  that.  Monuments,  where  we  may  worship.  If  I'd 
stayed  in  his  office,  typing  his  epileptic  architectural  views, 
I  might  not  have  known  that  I  loved  him.  I  knew  it  at  once 
when  I  ceased  to  see  him  every  day.  I  missed  him.  I  missed 


GRAND  PARADE  343 

the  blunt  good-humor,  the  occasional  outbursts  of  architec- 
tural ferocity,  and  above  all  the  sensation  of  being  welcome. 
Oh,  how  we  all  want  to  feel  welcome!  It  reassures  us.  It 
convinces  us  that  we  really  exist.  One  doubts  it  sometimes. 
One  feels  so  small,  so  unimportant;  one  conceives  so  easily 
that  if  one  was  run  over  outside  the  Ritz,  nobody  would 
lose  a  mouthful.  (Of  course  they  wouldn't.  I  wouldn't  lose 
a  mouthful  if  I  was  inside  the  Ritz.  It  shows  how  unreason- 
able one  is.)  In  the  first  fortnight  in  June  I  saw  him  only 
twice.  Once  he  took  me  out  to  lunch  and  proved  very 
uninteresting,  presumably  because  he  was  shy.  The  second 
time  he  called  for  me  at  five,  as  I  left  the  office,  and  walked 
with  me  through  Green  Park.  It  is  a  tribute  to  him  that, 
when  we  reached  Buckingham  Palace,  I  would  not  go  over 
the  road  that  leads  through  Belgravia,  ultimately  to  Batter- 
sea  Park,  to  the  aviary,  where  the  golden  pheasant  waited 
for  new  lovers.  I  felt  shy  of  the  bird.  I  wanted  no  witnesses 
of  my  emotional  bigamy.  But  as  we  came  back,  the  brilliant 
sunshine  reddening  the  path  we  trod,  we  came  a  little  closer 
to  each  other.  He  said,  "What  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"How?    Do?" 

"I  mean,  are  you  going  on  with  this  work?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said.  I  didn't  quite  understand  him. 
I  had  to  press  him.  "You  mean,  what  am  I  going  to  do  with 
my  life?" 

"Yes.  Perhaps  not  all  that.  Couldn't  expect  you  to 
know.  But  what  are  you  going  to  do  next  week?  That's 
about  as  far  as  one  can  go." 

"Oh,"  I  replied,  with  an  impatient  sigh,  "how  can  I  tell? 
Go  on,  I  suppose." 

"I  suppose  so,  too,  if  it  makes  you  happy." 

I  looked  at  him  angrily.  What  did  he  mean?  What  did 
he  want?  If  he  didn't  care  for  me,  why  didn't  he  let  me 
alone?  If  he  did  care  for  me,  why  didn't  he  say  so?  Afraid, 
perhaps.  At  last  he  said  something  which  I  didn't  under- 
stand. It's  out  of  Nietzsche  he  told  me,  later-.  It  was  this: 
"To  build  a  sanctuary  you  must  first  destroy  a  sanctuary." 

"I  don't  understand." 


344  URSULA   TRENT 

"You'll  have  to  before  you  can  run  your  own  life." 

Only  some  months  later  did  Alec  explain  this  simple  meta- 
phor. I  ought  to  have  known  him  better.  I  ought  to  have 
understood  that  he  could  not  imitate  Satterthwaite,  approach 
me  until  I  made  myself  free.  What  fools  we  are,  we  women, 
when  we  love!  We  cease  to  understand  anything.  So  we 
parted  near  Devonshire  House.  I  went  home.  Julian  was 
dressing  for  dinner.  His  shirt  band  was  too  tight;  he  was 
half  strangling  himself  as  he  put  on  his  collar.  Naturally  he 
looked  red.  I  thought  him  gross.  When  a  woman's  in  love, 
she's  unfair  to  other  men.  Still,  I  said  nothing.  I  too  per- 
formed the  dead  gestures  which  carry  on  the  automatic 
exercise  we  call  life.  I  dressed  as  carefully  as  usual,  did  my 
hair.  I  said,  quite  naturally,  "Will  you  send  the  porter  for 
a  taxi,  or  shall  I?"  We  were  dining  with  some  people.  One 
may  be  in  love,  but  one  dines  all  the  same. 

During  the  next  day  or  two,  Julian  seemed  to  take  a 
malignant  pleasure  in  referring  to  Alec.  I  had  told  him  that 
I'd  finished  the  MS.,  and  he  knew  that  I  was  working  in  an 
office.  But  he  didn't  seem  to  care  much,  except  that  he  said, 
"I  think  it's  all  rot,  this  idea  of  yours,  though  I  suppose  a 
hundred  and  thirty  quid  a  year  '11  come  in  handy."  That 
evening  he  was  inclined  to  tease  me.  As  he  brushed  his  dinner 
jacket  he  said,  "Do  you  like  your  new  job  as  well  as  the 
other  one,  Little  Bear?" 

"What  other  one?"  I  asked,  with  feigned  innocence. 

"Oh,  typing  Brough's  great  thoughts  about  art.  With 
little  intervals,  I  suppose,  for  Brough's  great  thoughts 
about  .  .  .  trifles." 

I  was  annoyed  enough  to  be  uncautious.  "Are  you  sug- 
gesting that  I  let  him  make  love  to  me?" 

"No,  Little  Bear.    It's  you  that's  suggesting  it." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  trifles?" 

"I  suppose  he'd  pass  the  time  of  the  day  with  you, 
wouldn't  he?  This  waistcoat  is  damned  tight;  I'm  getting 
stout." 

I  surveyed  him  for  a  moment.  No,  he  wasn't  gross,  he 
wasn't  stout.  Standing  so,  white  to  the  waist,  molded  into 


GRAND  PARADE  345 

his  pique  waistcoat,  broad-shouldered,  narrow-hipped,  he 
was  still  beautiful.  But  I  saw  that  he  was  only  beautiful, 
had  nothing  more  than  his  exquisite  body,  which  even  now 
I  could  not  quite  resist.  There  was  nothing  else,  nothing  in 
that  head,  nothing  in  that  mind.  Only  a  lovely  shell.  And 
as  I  looked  at  him,  I  thought  tenderly  of  the  other  man, 
who  had  not  this  supple,  this  feline  grace,  but  in  whose  oc- 
casional sarcasm  always  lurked  a  little  pity.  I  clicked  my 
tongue  with  impatience.  What  was  the  use  of  thinking  of 
that?  We  must  dine. 


Julian  must  have  perceived  that  I  did  not  like  allusions 
to  Brough,  for  after  flicking  me  with  them  two  or  three  times 
during  the  next  few  days,  talking  of  my  knight  of  the  foot 
rule,  and  advising  me  to  see  that  the  foundations  of  my  hap- 
piness were  made  of  stone  and  not  brick,  he  let  the  subject 
alone.  I  didn't  play  up  to  him.  I  just  said  nothing,  and  so 
he  tired  of  the  sport.  Indeed,  he  was  hi  a  good  temper.  He 
was  making  a  lot  of  money,  for  Meerbrook's  light  opera  had 
at  last  been  staged,  and  he  shared  the  excitements.  Also,  I 
think,  he  had  an  affair,  for  he  suddenly  affected  a  more 
foreign  style,  longer  boots,  and  an  elaborate  cane.  What 
was  she?  Actress?  Dancer?  Or  just  a  little  shop  girl 
picked  up  in  Oxford  Street?  Russian?  Who  cared?  I  didn't 
care,  because  Julian  didn't  matter  to  me,  and  I  stayed  with 
him,  though  I  loved  another  man,  because  he  didn't  matter 
to  me.  That  may  surprise  men,  but  not  women.  If  I  had 
cared  a  little  for  Julian,  while  loving  another,  then  indeed 
I  could  not  have  borne  him,  because  with  my  slight  fondness 
would  have  mixed  a  remorse  that  would  have  humiliated  me. 
As  I  neither  loved  nor  loathed  him,  as  he  just  was  not,  it 
didn't  seem  to  matter  whether  I  lived  with  him  or  not.  It 
was  like  living  alone  in  a  place  where  occasionally  an  irrel-3 
evant  noise  made  itself  heard. 

Yet  those  days  were  ending.  Termination  was  rushing 
upon  me  without  my  understanding  it.  Emptiness  was  the 


346  URSULA   TRENT 

ground  in  which  any  seed  might  flourish.  One  Friday  after- 
noon, Julian,  being  very  busy  with  the  matching  of  some  stuff, 
which  he  was  doing  himself  because  he  might  change  his  mind, 
had  not  gone  to  the  Maison  Dromina.  We  lunched  together 
in  the  City,  where  he  in  vain  interviewed  some  warehouse 
men.  I  wanted  to  go  into  Hatchard's  while  Julian  had  a 
man  to  see  at  a  club  near  Hyde  Park  Corner.  So  we  took 
a  taxi,  but  just  as  we  reached  the  Circus  Julian  said:  "By 
Jove !  I  must  have  a  word  with  Arf  a  Mo',  if  by  any  chance 
he's  in." 

So  we  stopped  the  taxi  near  a  big  block  of  flats  in  Picca- 
dilly. I  went  on  to  the  bookshop  while  Julian  went  upstairs, 
leaving  the  taxi  outside.  I  was  not  long  choosing  my  book, 
but  instead  of  going  home  at  once  I  turned  into  Jermyn 
Street,  to  buy  soap.  I  wondered  if  it  was  hallucination,  but 
I  thought  I  saw  Julian  dive  up  Piccadilly  Arcade.  Absurd, 
of  course.  I  bought  the  soap,  but  the  impression  was  so 
strong  that  I  went  up  Piccadilly  Arcade  and  along  Picca- 
dilly until  I  reached  the  flats.  Funny;  the  taxi  was  still 
there.  I  recognized  the  driver  by  his  peculiarly  hostile 
expression. 

But  then  .  .  .  if  I'd  really  seen  Julian  he  couldn't  have  for- 
gotten the  taxi.  I  felt  so  oppressed  that  I  went  upstairs  to 
Arf  a  Mo's  flat.  The  valet  informed  me  that  Mr.  Moy  was 
out  of  London  and  would  not  be  back  tih1  that  evening. 
Nobody  had  called.  A  terrible  idea  came  upon  me.  In  a 
trembling  voice  I  said  to  the  valet,  "Is  there  more  than  one 
way  out  of  these  flats?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  there's  a  door  on  to  Piccadilly  and  one  on  to 
Jermyn  Street." 

"Oh!    Thanks." 

I  went  down.  So  it  was  true.  He  had  bilked  the  taxi 
driver,  just  to  save  three  and  six,  and  was  letting  the  man 
wait  in  Piccadilly  while  he  got  away  into  Jermyn  Street. 
It  wasn't  economy.  I  knew  him  too  well  for  that.  It  was 
something  worse,  something  cruel  that  took  pleasure  in  cun- 
ning. Well,  the  first  thing  to  do  was  to  pay  the  driver,  which 
I  did.  "My  husband  finds  he'll  be  upstairs  some  time,"  I 


GRAND  PARADE  347 

said  to  the  impassive  driver.    I  still  wanted  to  cover  Julian's 
shame.    It  was  a  little  my  shame. 


in 

I  didn't  say  anything  about  it.  Perhaps  I  still  felt  too 
neutral  to  Julian  to  let  myself  in  for  a  scene,  where  I  should 
have  to  denounce  him,  to  show  myself  outraged  and  humili- 
ated beyond  description.  Perhaps  I  was  simply  too  shocked. 
I'd  seen  people  lie,  I'd  seen  people  scheme,  but  I'd  never  seen 
anybody  steal.  This  mood  stayed  with  me  next  day,  and  I 
was  spared  the  society  of  Julian,  for  he'd  gone  away  for  the 
week-end,  nominally  to  stay  at  Lockwood's  place  in  Sussex, 
on  business.  I  passed  that  day  crushed.  Now  I  had  to 
understand  that  things  were  ending,  that  I  must  do  some- 
thing, and  though  I  had  been  much  hardened  by  many  years 
of  war  work,  and  nearly  three  years  in  the  world  of  peace,  so 
much  more  terrible  than  that  of  war,  I  was  still  the  Ursula 
Trent  that  couldn't  make  up  her  mind.  Instead  I  did  what 
my  sort  tends  to  do  in  these  cases:  I  dined  at  a  little  Italian 
restaurant,  alone,  in  Tottenham  Court  Road,  drank  a  whole 
bottle  of  burgundy,  followed  with  a  benedictine,  and  went  to 
bed,  feeling  that  I'd  exaggerated  the  evil  of  the  world.  On 
the  Sunday  morning  I  woke  up  rather  early.  It  was  awful. 
I  had  a  pain  as  if  a  large  blister  were  lying  across  the  left 
side  of  my  face  and  head.  My  mouth  was  coated  with  bitter- 
ness. There  was  no  doubt  about  it.  I  had  a  head.  That 
burgundy  must  have  been  made  in  Tottenham  Court  Road. 
Naturally,  after  failing  to  eat  breakfast,  I  was  very  depressed. 
Still,  I  got  up.  One's  heart  may  break,  empires  may  totter, 
but  one  must  get  up  all  the  same,  wash,  eat,  to  sustain  the 
life  one  doesn't  prize.  Why  does  one  live?  To  please  the 
instinct  of  self-preservation.  I  ate  a  little  toast  and  drank 
as  much  tea  as  would  fill  a  kettle.  Then  I  tried  to  sum  up 
my  situation,  sitting  at  the  writing  table  and  putting  it 
down  under  headings,  one,  two,  three.  It  was  obvious  that 
I  must  leave  Julian,  but  it  had  been  obvious  so  often.  Also 
I  had  left  him  before,  and  remembered  my  horrible  fortnight 
23 


348  URSULA   TRENT 

in  the  Jermyn  Street  hotel,  the  sense  of  dependence  on  Lord 
Alfred's  money.  Also  I  had  had  experience  of  looking  for 
work  in  a  labor  market  clotted  with  scores  of  thousands  of 
girls  who  wanted  to  go  on  earning  the  pocket  money  they'd 
earned  during  the  war.  I  was  frightened  of  the  world.  I 
knew  what  the  stakes  were.  If  I'd  been  old  and  ugly,  and 
failed  to  find  work,  it  would  have  been  the  river;  for  me  it 
was  Piccadilly,  or,  almost  as  bad,  the  prodigal  return  to 
Ciber  Court,  with  three  vague  years  to  be  endlessly  discussed 
with  mamma.  She  would  begin,  "Of  course,  Ursula,  bygones 
are  bygones,  but  there's  just  one  little  thing  I'd  like  to  know." 
Hell! 

As  usual  I  had  very  little  money.  As  usual  I  didn't  know 
what  to  do.  As  usual  I  was  stiff-necked  and  didn't  want  to 
take  help  from  Satterthwaite,  or  Lord  Alfred,  or  any  other 
kind  person.  Too  incompetent  to  stand  alone  and  too  proud 
to  take  money.  Yes,  I  was  an  English  aristocrat  right 
enough.  But  an  English  aristocrat,  that  takes  a  flunky's 
tip  with  difficulty,  unless  it's  very  large,  say  a  hundred  thou- 
sand pounds  if  he  happens  to  be  a  general,  that  aristocrat 
will  always  take  the  flunky's  advantage  of  somebody's 
patronage.  As  I  got  up  and  went  out,  intending  to  go  to 
St.  James's  Park  and  think,  rlready  I  had  Alec  Brough  in 
mind.  It  is  a  tribute  to  my  feeling  for  him  that  I  hesitated, 
not  because  I  couldn't  take  help  and  advice  from  him,  but 
because  I  felt  it  would  bother  him,  would  thrust  respon- 
sibility upon  him.  I  didn't  want  him  to  be  responsible  for 
me.  Somebody  else  might  do  something  for  me,  but  to  him 
I  must  remain  an  equal.  So  I  sat  upon  a  little  green  chair 
in  the  brilliant  sunshine,  watching  the  Sunday  families,  papa 
perspiring  under  a  silk  hat,  mamma  in  tight  shoes,  children 
more  fortunate,  not  so  starched  as  I  was  when  a  child,  yet 
their  spirits  affected  by  the  gloom  of  the  Sabbath.  I  envied 
them.  They'd  got  a  sort  of  road  to  follow,  to  trot  along  until 
they  died.  I  was  an  adventuress;  all  the  world  was  mine, 
and  none  of  it.  I  think  it  was  this  sense  of  desolation  forced 
me  to  go  to  a  telephone  box  and  ring  up  Alec  Brough.  I  had 
to  have  some  links  with  the  world,  and  I  knew  that  I  needed 


GRAND  PARADE  349 

his  good-humored  presence,  the  brain  that  understood,  the 
tongue  that  never  committed  an  indiscretion.  He  was 
quite  himself  on  the  telephone  when  I  asked  whether  I 
might  come  and  see  him.  He  showed  no  surprise. 

"Right-o.  When  will  you  come?  It's  half  past  twelve. 
Better  come  to  lunch." 

"All  right,"  I  said. 

"Good-by." 

He  made  things  easy.  I  went  up  to  Hampstead  by  tube, 
and  lost  my  way,  as  one  does.  At  last  I  found  Lower  Ter- 
race, where  he  lived,  and  for  a  moment  stopped,  soothed  and 
made  shy  by  the  ancient  charm  of  this  place.  Lower  Terrace 
consists  of  only  a  few  cottages,  rather  precious  as  well  as 
tumbledown.  They  are  tumbledown  in  an  artistic  way,  like 
Marie  Antoinette  playing  dairymaid.  They  were  charm- 
ingly named;  one  of  them,  Constable  Cottage,  looked  as 
if  it  might  be  the  home  of  a  Prunella  from  Mayfair.  Oppo- 
site, Romney's  cottage,  rather  nautical,  with  its  white  wooden 
first  floor  and  its  outlook  toward  the  rolling  northwest. 

I  took  all  this  hi  as  I  hesitated.  I  stood  there,  conscious 
that  I  looked  rather  nice  in  a  powder-blue  linen  coat  and 
skirt,  patent  shoes,  and  one  of  those  darling  little  hats  made 
of  varnished  plaited  straw.  I  didn't  like  going  in.  It  made 
me  shy  to  go  into  a  strange  man's  house  like  that;  of  certain 
hesitations  even  extreme  experience  fails  to  deprive  us.  So 
I  stood  watching  the  road  that  goes  toward  the  Heath, 
twinkling  in  the  sun  as  if  coated  with  powdered  glass.  What 
could  he  do?  What  would  he  say?  It  would  be  so  awkward, 
telling,  and  so  awkward  not  to  tell.  Supposing  he  were 
alone?  Would  he  make  love  to  me?  Perhaps.  Did  I  want 
him  to?  Well,  yes.  But  1  didn't  want  him  to  think  I  came 
for  that.  Oh,  damn!  Half  past  one.  I'd  better  go  in  and 
be  done  with  it. 

I  rang  the  bell  hard.  The  elderly  woman  who  opened  was 
reassuring.  This  was  the  cook-housekeeper  I  had  been  told 
about.  She  led  me  into  the  drawing-room  on  the  first  floor, 
where  I  waited  for  a  moment.  A  regular  man's  drawing- 
room —  fishing  rods,  riding  crops,  golf  clubs,  a  picture  of 


350  URSULA   TRENT 

Tagalie  with  her  jockey,  books,  plans,  an  elevation  of  a  build- 
ing, and  (a  curious  contrast  with  the  sporting  quality)  a 
couple  of  fine  woodcuts  labeled  Wadsworth.  These  two, 
with  their  bold  black  and  whites,  their  magnificent  energy, 
fascinated  me  so  that  Alec  Brough  came  in  without  my 
noticing  him. 

"Hullo !"  he  said,  as  he  shook  hands.  "You're  late."  He 
looked  at  his  watch.  "We'd  better  go  down,  or  Mrs.  Ans- 
low  '11  be  mad.  She's  quite  mad  enough  as  it  is  at  having 
a  guest  landed  on  her  suddenly." 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  I  mumbled,  as  we  went  downstairs. 

"Oh,  don't  you  worry.  I'll  show  her  I'm  a  man  if  she 
says  anything."  He  giggled.  "But  I  hope  she  won't  say 
anything.  She's  really  rather  fierce  and  a  perfect  dear." 

We  talked  of  trifles  during  lunch.  What  a  man's  lunch  it 
was.  Ox-tail  soup !  Ox-tail  soup  at  the  end  of  June!  Roast 
beef,  baked  potatoes,  greens  cut  into  cubes  .  .  .  and  roly- 
poly.  Oh,  these  barbarians !  But  as  we  talked  of  plays  and 
seaside  resorts,  the  weather,  and  the  speed  of  the  London  & 
Northwestern,  I  suspected  that  he  was  trying  to  make  me 
drink  too  much.  Evidently  he  was  more  sensitive  to  good 
wine  than  to  delicate  food. 

"Try  this  claret.  Good,  isn't  it?  Gives  a  lot  of  trouble, 
though.  If  you  warm  it  more  than  three  minutes  you  lose 
the  .  .  .  the  . .  .  what  shall  I  say?  . . .  soul." 

"It's  very  nice,"  I  said,  and  emptied  my  glass. 

"I  won't  give  you  any  more,"  he  went  on,  "because  I 
want  you  to  try  the  other  one.  Mrs.  Anslow,  the  big  tum- 
blers, please." 

"Do  you  think  I'm  going  to  drink  that  much?"  I  said, 
laughing,  as  a  tumbler  that  would  hold  a  quart  was  set 
before  me. 

"No,  you  ignoramus.  That's  to  enable  you  to  swirl  it 
round  and  enjoy  the  ethers.  Try  that.  There,  isn't  that 
rounder?  Isn't  that  fuller  than  the  other?" 

I  laughed  at  him.  Men  are  so  religious  about  wine.  They're 
religious  about  all  their  pleasures.  After  lunch,  I  looked 
round  this  small,  pleasant  room  with  whitewashed  walls  and 


GRAND  PARADE  351 

mahogany  furniture,  feeling  content.  My  head  had  stopped 
aching;  food  often  helps. 

"Let's  go  into  the  garden,"  he  said,  "and  have  coffee 
there." 

It  was  rather  a  small  garden,  sloping  up  from  the  house. 
First  a  little  flagged  place,  where  poles  betrayed  that  Mrs. 
Anslow  hung  out  washing.  Then  a  little  gravel  terrace  under 
a  monkey  tree.  Then  a  neglected  lawn,  surrounded  by  a 
great  plantation  of  hollyhocks  that  spread  their  cockades 
against  an  old  white  wall. 

We  sat  for  a  time  under  the  monkey  tree  with  coffee  and 
liqueurs.  He  seemed  to  find  it  natural  that  I  should  call  on 
him  so  suddenly.  He  didn't  try  to  question  me.  Indeed, 
he  seemed  preoccupied  with  his  own  affairs,  with  the 
share  that  he  had  taken  in  a  Scottish  grouse  moor.  He 
was  quite  excited  about  the  12th,  only  six  weeks  off,  and 
looked  forward  to  the  "stey  braes."  "Though,"  he  said, 
"they  wind  me  in  the  end.  I'm  getting  old  and  fat."  He 
was  enthusiastic. 

"You've  never  shot  in  Scotland,  have  you?  Oh,  it's 
neaven!  To  see  your  setter  searching  and  quartering  round; 
see  him  stand  as  if  he  was  made  of  stone,  breathing  in  the 
scent,  while  his  lips  sort  of  twitch;  see  him  slither  along  very 
quietly,  sort  of  stalking.  .  .  .  And  then,  all  the  wings  making 
a  whir  as  the  covey  rises.  Bang!  Bang!  Ah!  Both 
barrels!" 

I  said  nothing.  I  wanted  to  humor  him  and  to  talk  of  the 
things  that  pleased  him,  but  the  wine  and  the  liqueur  em- 
boldened me.  Alcohol  swells  up  one's  ego.  I  wanted  to  talk 
of  my  affairs.  But  I  couldn't  quite,  and  so  began : 

"I  was  drunk  last  night." 

"Oh!" 

"I  did  it  on  purpose." 

"One  does  when  one's  unhappy." 

"I  didn't  say  I  was  unhappy." 

"Just  as  you  like." 

The  coldness  with  which  he  said  that  upset  me,  but  I 
managed  to  steady  my  voice  and  to  say:  "Yes.  One  gets 


352  URSULA   TRENT 

disappointed  in  people."  As  he  was  silent,  in  a  rush  of 
emotion  I  told  him  everything,  not  only  how  Julian  had 
bilked  the  cabman,  but  much  of  the  rest  —  the  ignominy 
of  my  life  with  him,  his  coolness,  his  infidelity.  I  see 
myself  sitting  under  that  tree,  my  head  forward,  very  in- 
tent, talking,  talking.  I  am  telling  him  all  the  things  that 
matter  and  many  that  don't.  Nice  things  that  Julian  said 
and  did,  irrelevant  facts  about  Too  too  and  Sadie.  "I 
wonder  what  I'm  going  to  do."  I  review  my  resources  and 
end  by  talking  of  frocks.  I  am  pitiful,  foolish,  quite  un- 
strung. But  he  seems  to  understand. 

When  I'd  done  he  looked  at  me  critically  and  said, 
"You're  very  good-looking,  Ursula." 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"Yes.    Thought  so  from  the  first  moment  I  met  you." 

"How  could  you!  I  was  hideous  then,  after  .  .  .  I'd  been 
ill.  I  looked  awful." 

"I  thought  you  beautiful." 

I  looked  at  him  softly.  It's  nice  to  be  thought  beautiful 
when  one  is  beautiful,  but  how  delicious  to  be  thought  beau- 
tiful when  one  isn't. 

"  I'm  going  to  leave  Julian,"  I  said,  irrelevantly. 

"Yes." 

"I  don't  know  what  I'm  going  to  do." 

"I  do." 

I  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  One's  nervous  then.  Feebly 
I  said:  "How?  What?" 

"You're  going  to  marry  me." 

I  knew  he  was  going  to  say  that,  but  all  the  same  he  sur- 
prised me.  For  he  looked  at  the  same  time  tender  and 
roguish.  There  was  bright  merriment  in  his  eyes,  and  his 
blunt,  pleasant  face  was  all  alive.  He  looked  so  sturdy  and 
assured,  as  he  lounged  in  a  deck  chair,  with  his  well-tended 
workman's  hands  clasped  before  him.  After  a  moment  he 
went  on,  "You're  not  surprised,  are  you?' 

"No." 

"I  wanted  to  say  that  to  you  the  second  day  at  Notley. 
But  I  couldn't." 


GRAND  PARADE  853 

A  sudden  curiosity  flooded  me.  I  had  an  absurd  vision  of 
some  entanglement  of  his.  So  I  had  to  ask,  "Why?" 

"  Oh,  well,  you  weren't  free.  I  know  what  you're  thinking. 
You're  thinking  that  I  knew  quite  well  how  things  were  with 
you.  But  I  didn't  want  you  like  that.  I  wanted  you  to  come 
to  me  free,"  As  I  said  nothing  he  added,  "Well,  that's 
settled,  isn't  it?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  I  said.  I  was  disappointed.  Not  so  much 
because  he  was  unemotional;  the  right  kind  of  man  is.  But 
why  wasn't  I  more  emotional?  There  I  sat  opposite  him, 
making  the  biggest  decision  in  my  life,  and  that  was  all.  I 
ought  to  have  known  him  better,  to  have  realized  his  strong 
restraints,  to  have  understood  that  he  was  epicure  enough  to 
defer  his  own  delights,  if  only  a  moment. 

Indeed,  it  was  only  a  moment,  for  half  lazily  he  got  out  of 
his  chair  .  .  .  and  this  is  a  testimony  that  I  loved  him.  I 
thought  his  movement  graceful,  though  he  was  getting  out 
of  a  deck  chair.  He  came  to  my  side,  bent  over  me,  put  an 
arm  round  my  waist,  drew  me  to  my  feet,  and  led  me  across 
the  lawn,  where  the  brilliant  hollyhocks  made  a  benevolent 
screen.  With  his  arms  about  me  and  the  lips  which  had 
pressed  mine  still  pressed  against  my  cheek,  I  knew  indeed 
that  I  had  not  come  to  him  out  of  loneliness,  that  really  I 
loved  this  man,  everything  of  him,  that,  standing  so,  my  head 
against  his  shoulder,  I  was  no  longer  the  prey  of  my  senses, 
the  martyr  of  my  sestheticism,  that  he  had  conquered  in 
me  something  that  no  other  man  had  ever  seen,  the  fugitive 
thing  we  call  the  heart,  the  unlikely  thing  we  call  the  soul. 
I  didn't  see  so  clearly,  then.  Then  I  knew  only  complete 
happiness,  entire  fulfillment.  Body  and  mind,  he  pleased  me. 
I  wanted  nothing  better  than  so  to  stay  in  the  hard  ring  of  his 
arms  until  the  last  shadow  lengthens  upon  the  last  day. 


TV 

When  at  last  he  released  me,  when  at  last  the  emotion  of 
love  attained  and  the  power  of  caresses  had  been  merged  into 
satisfaction,  he  said: 


354  URSULA  TRENT 

"Nuisance  to-day  being  Sunday.  Can't  get  a  special  license 
until  to-morrow.  Still,  we  can  be  married  on  Tuesday." 

"Oh  no!"  I  said.  I  don't  know  why.  "Not  quite  yet, 
Alec." 

"Why  not?    We're  going  to  do  it.    Why  not  do  it  now? " 

"Yes,  I  know.    But  one  waits  a  little,  doesn't  one?" 

"One  does  sometimes.  I  suppose  I'd  better  send  you  to 
your  mamma,  in  charge  of  one  of  my  aunts.  I  could  propose 
again  there,  if  you  like,  and  we  could  be  engaged  for  two  or 
three  years." 

"Don't  be  absurd,"  I  said,  "I  only  mean  that  it's  such  a 
rush." 

"  I'm  in  a  hurry." 

What  could  I  say?  That  is  such  an  argument.  So  I  smiled 
and  said:  "All  right.  But  what  about  my  things?  Don't 
you  think  we'd  better  go  to  the  flat  and  pack?  Julian  won't 
be  home  till  to-morrow  morning,  so  there  '11  be  no  bother." 

"All  right.  I'll  ring  for  a  taxi.  Of  course,  it's  not  properly 
romantic,  what  you  suggest.  What  I  ought  to  say  is  this: 
'No,  my  dearest,  our  love  is  too  pure  and  too  beautiful  for 
us  to  slink  into  the  place  where  you  have  known  misery.  I 
will  face  the  author  of  your  miseries.  I,  your  most  aged 
slippers  in  my  hand,  will  say,  *  Stand  back,  caitiff,  the  girl  is 
mine.'  That  would  be  romance,  but  romance  is  highly  incon- 
venient, and  to-morrow  morning  I  must  see  two  builders. 
So  let  us  slink." 

I  stopped  him  before  we  went,  to  murmur  another  confes- 
sion. I  was  encouraged  to  this  by  his  reference  to  the  condi- 
tions in  which  I  had  lived.  I  didn't  want  him  to  misunder- 
stand me.  I  wanted  to  come  to  him  really  free.  So  I  said: 

"Alec,  you  said  you  wanted  to  come  to  me  free.  Well, 
I  want  to  come  free  of  secrets.  Did  you  know  when  you  met 
me  at  Walmer  that  I'd  been  going  to  have  a  child?" 

"Yes,  of  course  I  knew." 

"Does  it  matter?" 

He  hesitated  for  a  second.  "Well,  I  don't  want  to  pretend 
to  be  modern  and  say  that  it  doesn't  matter.  Of  course,  I'd 
rather  it  had  been  my  child.  But  then  ...  if  you  hadn't 


GRAND  PARADE  355 

gone  through  all  you  have  you  wouldn't  be  what  you  are." 
He  flung  his  arms  round  me  and  pressed  me  to  him  with  a 
new  violence:  "No,  it  doesn't  matter.  Nothing  matters  if 
it's  made  you  what  you  are,  the  only  woman  in  the  world 
that  I  could  love  if  she  was  old,  if  she  was  ugly,  if  she  was 
lying,  if  she  was  faithless.  See  what  I  mean?  It's  just 
because  nothing  matters  that  I  know  I  love  you  as  I  didn't 
know  I  could  love  a  woman." 


Chapter  VI 
Now  Dismiss 


HOW  young  I  am,  experienced  woman!  Now  dismiss! 
How  absurd!  As  if  one  ever  were  dismissed.  But  I 
can't  think  of  anything  else  just  now.  I  remember  what  Alec 
said  when  he  leaned  over  my  shoulder  as  I  finished  the  first 
chapter  of  my  story — "The  best  chapters  are  still  unwritten." 
And  again  I  say:  "I'm  thirty,  nearly.  I  wonder?"  Do  I 
wonder?  But,  there,  I  don't  feel  intellectual!  I'm  too 
newly  wed  to  ask  myself  questions  such  as:  "Why  am  I? 
Why  am  I  what  I  am?  And,  if  so,  how?"  That  may  come 
later. 

Just  now  I  am  too  happy,  almost  frightened  of  my  happi- 
ness, and  I  understand  the  old  story  of  the  tyrant  of  Samos, 
who,  to  propitiate  the  fate  which  had  given  him  too  much, 
threw  his  ring  into  the  sea.  A  lot  of  good  that  would  do  me; 
it  would  only  come  back  in  a  kipper. 

Now!  I  mustn't  think  of  kippers.  I'm  a  young  wife  who 
loves  her  husband,  who  has  emerged  into  happiness  after 
much  misery.  A  sense  of  humor  is  out  of  place.  Let  me  be 
rhapsodic.  No,  I  can't  do  it.  I'm  happy  to  the  point  of 
singing  and  dancing  with  happiness,  but  I  can't  dodge 
comedy.  I'm  not  a  nice  girl.  Curiously  enough,  Isabel  is 
much  more  rhapsodic  than  I  am.  I  expect  she's  so  relieved. 
We  had  a  conversation  this  morning,  when  she  came  to  see 
me  after  Alec  and  I  returned  from  a  visit  to  Giber  Court — 
our  first,  three  months  after  our  wedding. 

"Well,  how  did  it  go  off?" 

"All  right." 

"Did  they  like  him?" 


NOW  DISMISS  357 

"Of  course  they  liked  him." 

She  laughed  at  me.  "Of  course  you'd  think  that,  being  a 
bit  prejudiced.  But  tell  me,  really,  are  you  sure  they  liked 
him?" 

"Well,  papa  took  him  away  after  dinner  to  play  billiards 
with  him.  And  I  gathered  that  papa  told  mamma,  who  told 
her  new  maid,  who  told  the  servants'  hall,  which  radiated 
toward  the  stables  and  the  garden,  where  I  finally  collected 
it  from  old  Diss,  who  is  still  a  father  to  me,  that  I  might  have 
done  worse." 

"I  expect  it  was  a  bit  more  cordial  than  that,"  said  Isabel, 
laughing.  "But  then  Diss  comes  from  Cumberland  and  isn't 
good  at  saying  pretty  things." 

"I  think  papa  likes  him  very  much.  He  said  to  me: 
"Your  husband  doesn't  seem  to  care  much  for  politics. 
Perhaps  it's  quite  as  well;  it  '11  stop  him  voting  on  the 
wrong  side." 

"That  settled  it,"  said  Isabel.  "But  what  about  mamma?" 

I  giggled.  "I  don't  think  mamma  much  minds  whom  I've 
married,  so  long  as  I  am  married.  She's  still  a  little  sus- 
picious. She  said  the  marriage  had  been  very  hurried. 
Why  was  it  so  hurried?  What  church  did  we  go  to?  Oh! 
What  church  did  I  say?  What  street  was  it  in?" 

"Did  she  ask  to  see  your  marriage  lines?" 

"No,  she  isn't  as  bad  as  that;  but  it's  such  a  relief  to  her 
to  think  I'm  really  married  that  she  wants  to  chew  the  cud 
of  her  satisfaction." 

"No  wonder,"  said  Isabel.  "It's  so  convenient  to  be 
married." 

"Now,  Isabel,  don't  thrust  any  confidences  on  me.  I'm  a 
respectable  woman." 

"Quite  so.    Reformed  rakes  are  always  dragons  of  virtue." 

"  You're  being  rude,  and,  by  the  way,  were  you  not  a 
dragon  of  virtue  before  you  married?  Might  I  not  say  that 
a  reformed  dragon  ..." 

"All  right.  I  call  this  struggle  off.  Tell  me  about  Alec. 
Do  you  like  him?  " 

"Oh,  I  think  he'll  do." 


358  URSULA   TRENT 

"With  a  little  managing." 

"All  men  need  managing." 

"Yes,"  said  Isabel,  "they  do."  She  grew  reflective. 
"It's  quite  an  art,  managing  a  husband,  but  it's  overrated. 
I'm  sure  it's  easier  than  managing  a  hotel.  You  may  not 
think  it,  but  Gervers  started  very  domineering.  He  wouldn't 
have  this  and  he  wouldn't  have  that  and  he'd  be  master  in 
his  own  house." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"Oh,"  replied  Isabel,  "I  said,  'Yes,  dear!'" 

I  laughed.  "  How  I  know  that '  Yes,  dear ' !  What  a  nega- 
tive it  contains!" 

"One  mustn't  give  that  away,"  said  Isabel.  "A  good  idea 
is  to  demand  the  thing  you  don't  want.  Then  they'll  force 
you  to  have  your  own  way.  Always  pull  a  mule  by  the  tail 
to  make  it  go  forward.  I  suppose  you  know  that,  Ursula? 
But  let  me  give  you  a  tip.  Never  do  your  husband  out  of  a 
row." 

"Oh!    That's  new!" 

"It  won't  be  new  by  and  by.  The  day  when  your  husband 
comes  back  wanting  a  row,  something's  happened  and  he's 
been  done  out  of  his  row.  I  saw  a  cartoon  in  The  Bystander 
the  other  day,  of  a  man  coming  home  with  a  conjugal  expres- 
sion on  his  face  and  saying:  *If  she's  gone  to  bed,  I'll  go  for 
her  for  not  sitting  up  for  me.  And  if  she  is  sitting  up  for  me, 
I'll  go  for  her  for  wasting  the  electric  light.' " 

"What  is  one  to  do  in  these  cases?  What  is  the  Isabel 
system?" 

"Weep.  They  love  it.  They  think  it  serves  you  out, 
never  mind  for  what,  but  it  serves  you  out.  After  a  little 
time,  during  which  they  rejoice  in  having  administered  just 
punishment,  they  become  magnanimous.  You  get  kissed 
and  comforted.  Next  day,  according  to  the  exchequer,  four 
rows  of  pearls  or  a  penny  bunch  of  violets." 

"I'll  remember  that.  But  I  don't  think  Alec  will  ever  go 
for  me." 

"He  may  be  a  monster.  My  feeling  about  Alec  is  that 
he's  too  fond  of  you.  Fond  husbands  are  an  awful  nuisance. 


NOW  DISMISS  359 

If  they  get  it  badly,  one  has  to  find  somebody  else.  For- 
tunately Gervers  prefers  golf.  I'm  afraid  Alec  likes  meeting 
you  at  breakfast." 

"Of  course  he  does." 

"That's  a  pity.  Do  you  walk  with  him  to  the  Tube?  Yes, 
I  thought  so.  Lunch  with  him  hi  Holborn,  of  course.  Do 
your  shopping  in  Holborn  and  meet  him  in  a  teashop?  Well, 
when  you're  tired  of  that,  and  he  isn't,  never  say  you  won't 
do  it.  Don't  say '  sha'n't' ;  it's  rude.  Say,  *  Yes,  dear ! '  Then 
say  the  cook  has  given  notice.  Burst  the  boiler,  or  poison 
the  dog,  but  don't  say  *  sha'n't/  That  merely  makes  the 
situation  impossible." 

"That  sounds  sensible,  but  have  you  never  had  a  wrangle 
with  Gervers?" 

"Never.  He's  had  wrangles  with  me,  but  I  wasn't  going 
to  wear  the  bloom  off  our  beautiful  married  life.  You  see, 
I'm  very  fond  of  Gervers.  He's  kind  and  not  at  all  stupid. 
But  I'm  just  a  little  cleverer.  And  I  play  fan1  with  him.  It 
may  not  always  be  very  nice  for  me  to  be  married  to  Ger- 
vers, but  it  may  be  rather  hard  for  Gervers  to  be  married 
to  me.  I  make  allowances." 

"You  mean  you  lead  him  by  the  nose." 

"Not  at  all.  I  let  him  be  boss  in  all  the  things  that  I  care 
nothing  about.  He  had  a  fit  of  economy  the  other  day  and 
brought  me  home  hi  a  tram.  I  knew  that  we  should  be  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  late  for  dinner  and  that  he'd  be  mad. 
But  I  didn't  say  so.  If  I'd  told  him,  he'd  have  been  obsti- 
nate, gone  hi  the  tram  all  the  same,  eaten  his  spoiled  dinner, 
and  hated  me  all  the  evening  because  I'd  been  right.  Always 
be  in  the  wrong,  Ursula.  It  confirms  your  husband  in  the 
belief  that  he  is  always  in  the  right." 

"So  much  for  Gervers,  but  Alec  is  quite  different." 

"They're  all  different,  but  all  the  same.  If  they're  old 
bachelors  they  want  a  little  free  time  away  from  their 
wives,  because  they're  used  to  it;  if  they're  young  bachelors, 
they  want  a  little  free  time  because  they  haven't  had  enough 
of  it.  If  they  haven't  been  comfortable,  they  want  to  be 
well  looked  after  for  a  change;  if  they've  been  comfortable, 


360  URSULA   TRENT 

they  want  to  go  on.  Men  all  want  the  same  thing.  They 
have  different  names  for  it.  Even  in  love,  one  man  calls  it 
pure  passion,  and  the  other  one  passionate  purity.  I  call  it 
whatever  Gervers  likes." 

"I  see.  Alec  says  we're  all  materialists  and  don't  bother 
about  labels." 

"Does  he?  That's  bad.  Can  it  be  that  you've  got  hold 
of  a  man  who  understands  women?" 

"I  think  he  guesses  my  thoughts  sometimes." 

"  That's  a  nuisance.  That  kind  is  too  clever.  I  think  you'd 
better  make  a  point  of  always  doing  the  obvious  thing  and 
never  telling  a  lie.  When  they're  clever,  like  Alec,  that 
baffles  them." 

"I  don't  want  to  baffle  him." 

"One  doesn't  at  first.  One  even  likes  them  to  notice  one's 
clothes." 

"I  do.  Alec  made  me  change  my  hat  yesterday;  he  said 
he  wouldn't  be  seen  dead  with  me  in  that  hat." 

"Oh,"  said  Isabel,  "that's  a  difficult  point.  I'm  not  quite 
sure  whether  I  prefer  the  man  who  curses  my  new  hat  or 
the  one  who  doesn't  notice  that  it  is  a  new  hat.  On  the 
whole,  I  think  the  Alec  type  is  better.  You  just  turn  the 
hat  back  to  front,  and  it's  taken  in  at  once." 

"Isabel,"  I  said,  solemnly,  "you  don't  understand.  You're 
so  matter-of-fact.  You  weren't  in  love  with  Gervers." 

"I  believe  you  once  said  that  I  was  crazy  for  him  when  I 
married  him." 

"Not  as  I  am  for  Alec." 

"Not  being  in  love  with  Alec  myself,  so  far,  I  can't  say. 
But  I'm  a  very  good  wife.  I  take  an  interest  in  Gervers's 
work,  which  I  must  say  isn't  much;  if  he  has  wrongs  I  burn 
with  them;  I  never  read  Punch,  so  that  he  may  tell  me  some 
fresh  jokes,  and  I  walk  miles  over  wet  links  with  him  when  I 
want  to  meet  another  member  of  his  club.  And  I'm  never 
affectionate." 

"Didn't  Gervers  ever  want  you  to  be  affectionate?" 

"He  did.  He  still  does.  He  always  will  if  I'm  not.  And 
so  will  Alec.  Don't  sit  up  for  him  if  he  has  to  go  to  a  meeting 


NOW  DISMISS  361 

of — what  is  it? — the  Royal  Institute  of  British  Architects. 
Don't  make  him  feel  that  if  he  stops  out  late  you'll  be 
wearing  your  heart  out,  or  whatever  it  is.  Don't  run  down 
in  your  chemise  when  you  hear  his  key  hi  the  lock.  He's 
probably  hot  and  dirty  and  has  planned  to  wash  and  brush 
his  hair,  to  look  charming,  and  to  wake  you  with  a  kiss. 
Let  him  kiss  you;  don't  kiss  him  except  as  a  favor.  At  his 
approach,  always  be  off,  but  not  too  fast.  Keep  a  hold  of 
your  independence;  be  steady;  but  be  ready  whenever  he 
inclines  toward  you.  One  to  be  ready,  two  to  be  steady,  and 
three  to  be  off,  I  think  those  are  the  rules  which  enable  one 
to  be  happy  though  married." 


She's  a  cynic.  Oh,  Isabel  knows  how  to  run  her  life.  I'm 
no  match  for  her.  She's  kept  me  on  the  edge  of  her  secret 
world.  She  is  wiser  than  I  was.  I  did  everything  openly; 
I  was  an  adventuress,  and  muddled;  I  have  no  technic, 
Isabel  is  all  technic,  while  I  am  all  emotion.  Perhaps  she 
puts  more  into  life  and  I  get  more  out  of  it.  No,  she  doesn't 
understand,  nobody  understands  who  hasn't  had  a  bad  time, 
who  never  wants  to  say,  "Now  dismiss."  Nothing  that  I 
said  to  Isabel,  and  nothing  that  I  can  write  here,  can  quite 
express  what  Alec  gives  me,  means  to  me.  I'm  not  trapped 
by  my  temperament.  Indeed  he  is  my  lover,  and  I  could 
not  wish  a  fonder,  or  one  that  can  make  in  me  an  emotion  so 
complete.  But  he  is  to  me  a  man  as  well  as  a  lover.  He  is 
my  companion  and  my  dear.  I  wish  I  could  tell  him  ho\r 
dear  he  is  to  me,  my  workaday  lover,  my  comrade,  my  future 
and  my  reality. 

Here  we  are,  we  two,  not  unbeautiful,  not  stupid,  well  off 
enough,  interested  in  this  film  in  a  million  reels  that  "we  call 
life.  What  is  going  to  become  of  us?  What  are  we?  How 
shall  we  govern  our  life,  that  have  governed  it  ill  enough 
separately,  and  must  face  the  heavier  task  of  governing  two 
strands  laid  together?  I  think  we  shall  succeed,  because  I 
love  him  enough  to  smile  at  him,  to  understand  that  he  is 


862  URSULA   TRENT 

my  child.  Every  woman  has  a  child  on  her  wedding  day, 
He  is,  I  say  it  again,  reality.  He  is  blunt  and  truthful;  he 
makes  life  possible. 

How  should  we  lead  our  life?  And  what  are  the  things 
which  rule  it?  Does  love  rule  it?  Yes,  so  far  as  the  music 
of  the  spheres  makes  a  chorus  to  the  spinning  world.  Does 
congenial  occupation  rule  it?  Yes,  so  far  as  one  is  content 
with  a  good  task  done,  as  the  carpenter  with  a  perfect  joint, 
with  a  sort  of  harmony  of  effort.  Does  wealth  rule  it?  Yes, 
so  far  as  one  is  not  too  poor,  and  compelled  to  think  only  of 
money,  not  too  rich,  and  compelled  to  think  only  of  spending 
it.  But  is  there  not  something  else?  The  knowledge  that 
makes  life  actual?  Something  we  all  need,  and  which  love 
alone  now  and  then  can  emulate?  Perhaps  we  are  all  whirling 
atoms  apart  from  an  Eternal  Purpose  and  aching  for  Him. 
But  I  don't  believe  in  the  copybook  gods.  I  am  neither 
Christian,  Jew,  Moslem,  nor  pagan.  I  don't  believe  in  any- 
thing conscious  that  makes  us,  molds  us,  and  absorbs  us. 
We  are  atoms  lost  in  the  void,  that  now  and  then  come 
together.  It  is  sweet  and  good,  that  drawing  together.  For 
a  moment  we  compass  eternity.  It  is  enough.  It  is  good 
enough.  I  will  whirl  no  more.  I  have  found  this  unity.  I 
am  in  the  shadowy  vestibule,  itself  an  infinity,  which  leads 
into  another  infinity.  Together,  Alec  and  I,  mutually  as- 
sured, we  enter  life,  life  which  is  a  house  of  cloud,  that 
dispels  our  breath,  and,  in  a  stranger  shape,  forms  again. 
Oh,  house  of  cloud  fit  habitation  for  spirits  gladly  bound  in 
subtle  chains! 


THE  END 


A  VT  A      /V\ 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  III 


A     000034541     3 


